The Dark Box
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: "These gems have a life in them: Their colors speak, say what words fail of." - George Eliot. The Dark Box has been opened. [Part of the "Resurrection Lily" series. Cecearl, Cecilos.]
1. Citrine, 1747

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **This began as an exercise to more fully understand Cecil and the Demon while writing "A Taste of Something." Then it became… um, this. Oops? Enjoy your flashbacks and flash-forwards.

**Collection Warnings: **Part of the Resurrection Lily series. Occasionally refers to scenes that have already been written in other fics, or scenes that are currently being drafted. Foreshadowing. Back story. Cecilos and Cecearl. Have a touch of Earlos, too, because what the hell, while we're at it. Occasional blood and gore, occasional fluff and humor. Time is broken. (Did you know that there's a spider on your ankle?)

**XXX**

_The jewels shift._

_He holds them in cupped hands, cool as water. They dribble, they drip. They spill, brimming over the cradling softness of his fingers and raining down in time-sealed globules. Frozen moments. A glittering cascade of instants, chittering and chattering and chiming and clacking, that bear the reflection of both the present and the past in their polish. Those fossilized fragments glimmer as they tumble, shining with moist sheens that ensnare the light as much as the darkness. _

_A variegated puddle swells within a basin of lacquered wood. The gemstone droplets heave; he tries desperately not to do the same. They surge; he stills. He pours. Faceted cuts mirror faces, while stones buffed to smoothness shimmer like scrying pools. He pours and pours, and the gems ripple outward in concentric rings, one event inspiring another inspiring another. He pours and pours and pours, and entertains thoughts of the sea. Of riptides and beasts and skeletal ships. Of treasure chests with picked locks and a barren niche where a decoration should sit. Where it should sit, but does not. Not anymore._

_Within that pilfered chest, jewels are piling up: foam-white, oceanic-blue, coral-pink, seaweed-green. Pearls have been plucked from the tongues of clams, and the clams are left empty. _

_His palms are empty. Cold now. The Machine has whirled itself to warmth. _

_He may begin._

**X**

**The Dark Box**

_Citrine, 1747_

**X**

_I love you._

It is a whisper. It is a whisper from somewhere deep within his ear: a whisper that slides with a licentious wetness through purulent canals and down an engorged esophagus, slippery as centipedes in sugary syrup. He gurgles on the boil of it, on a solution of gravel and skittering legs. On a smoldering slag vomit that is creeping and chunky and alive. The sweet molasses of the sensation coagulates with a desperate flail of spindly limbs, constricted by the velvet rawness of swollen muscles. It crystallizes, compressed into something hard and round and smooth. Like a gem. Like an egg, or a piece of rancid fruit. The vow encases itself in his gullet— tinted to match the infected blood that crusts over old injuries— and with his muzzle lost in the puddled shadows on the floor, there is nothing to catch the delicate ball of sound as it reaches his reddened uvula. As it pearls and peels.

_I do._

The gelatinous droplet tumbles. It ruptures. It bursts, premature, like the skull of a child flung against the stone wall, ichor squeezing in luscious clots and clumps from the misshapen lump of a cranium collapsed. Of features flattened. There is an obscenity in the stalled staccato slide of skin against sandpaper grit. Meat grates from fat in strips and ragged ribbons, in pared crimson curls— like the flesh of a rotten apple separated from its pulp. A _squelch_, a _crack_. White sigils are dyed in sprayed spurts of ink, ending a story before it could be written. Or, perhaps, telling it so quickly that it cannot be enjoyed. It is illegible; there are no words. There are only discordant noises, animalistic and meaningless. Consonants and vowels rattle against one another like great handfuls of chipped jewels, like rusted chains welded to obsidian partitions, like teeth within the void of a cavernous, howling maw.

_I love you very much, Little One._

Elastic lips are stretched bone-white, segregated like the worms that guard the soil of open graves. There are corpses strew before it, embalmed in the finery his suffering had purchased. His heart worn on their sleeves. Their hearts will soon be on his sleeves. Muscles and sinew and other sundry organs, distended from so long a gestation, birth themselves in stringy sheathes of saliva, a series of involuntary spasms pushing the sluicing, scarlet sludge from gaping orifices in various states of solidity. Something too greasy to be tears rolls down the woman's cheek. The others are oozing slugs of snot from their noses. The mucus of multiple membranes, gray and green and glutinous, leave spatters of gruesome color in the blackness; they shine with the iridescence of oil in the cataclysmic supernova that pulsates from his throat.

_So let me save you._

He had tried to force other things from his throat. Warnings. Pleads. A language that he had never had in a voice that he has no control over. He had wanted to remind them of Grandfather's threats, of his pre-mortem council and demands; he had wanted to keep the muzzle on. He had wanted to keep it on forever. He did not need to eat. He did not need to drink. He just needed… He had just—all he had needed was…

_Let me help you. _

All _they _had needed was…

_Let me _out.

The boy's family rains upon him in clusters and gristly hunks, leaving him glistening like the gems they'd sought.

**XXX**

From crystal-cure:

_Citrine:_ Protects from negative energies and abuse. Good for cleansing, purifying, and soothing distressed conditions, both mental and physical. Promotes love, particularly amongst members of the family.


	2. Amethyst, 1852

**Disclaimer: **Still nope.

**Author's Note: **Yay, always need more Josie!

**XXX**

_He picks at the golden wedge like he would a scabbed wound, feeling within a responsive twinge of pain. It's as if this jewel was some small part of himself, something dead but still clinging—something he had untimely ripped away. An injury that had not fully healed. But while the citrine peals from the clamp with superficial ease—bleeding only a few drops of lubricant as it slips from the vice of the Machine—, the echo of its story lingers with an ache that runs far deeper. Deeper, and gaping. He worries distantly about infections. About being infected._

_He is fairly certain it is already too late. _

_With a care that borders on reverence, he returns the first crystal to its home in the Box. The impossible compartments within are individually sized, awaiting their pebbles like paired puzzle pieces; he suspects that the picture they ultimately mesh to create will be telling indeed. The warped wedge of stone fits into a slot lined with crumpled velvet, its edge labeled in a spidery hand. Upon that small swatch of sallow parchment, the year "1747" can be read, both weathered and withered. _

_The past had gone, and come, and gone again._

_It is time to move forward._

_Next._

**X**

**The Dark Box**

_Amethyst, 1852_

**X**

"You have become so old, sister."

She stiffens, a satin-swathed hand draped elegantly over the banister of the box. The fashionable lavender of her long gloves molds into place loosening sheets of earthy skin; they hide the first patchy stains of an overworked liver and sheathe graceful swirls of tender veins and spiny henna. Stylized vines creep in blooming tendrils up the sliding soil of her arm, otherworldly eyes peering over the hems of pastel finery. Some blink bemusedly as softened muscles shift. They are thick and thin and freshly applied, the color of old teardrops mixed with desert sands: dark and muddy and smooth, like silt. Like sound. They are the visual representation of the voice that whispers over the swell of an orchestra, its sonorous pitch as controlled and melancholy as the warble of the violas.

"And you remain so young, brother."

The retort is given before turning, but that makes the observation no less accurate. She does not need to see to See. This is just as well, as the shadowed ambiance of the opera makes it difficult to pick out any more than the vague impression of her booth's intruder.

He is taller now. Arguably the size of a man, though far too delicate to be considered masculine. Lean and lanky and perhaps seventeen, he stands straddling the line between innocently endearing and dashingly dapper. Regal, but wickedly so. A plum-swaddled prince soon fated to be king, crowed with hair that matches the blotched gloom on tasseled burgundy curtains. Those hangings susurrate softly, wafting like a conjurer's kerchief; there is always the threat that he will suddenly disappear. But for now, he merely stands behind the undulant auburn swags, hidden equally by lay and silhouette.

"Josie," he greets, quiet. Nodding. He pushes back the pall, if only a fraction, to allow a misty shaft of candlelight to return the color to his irises. Azure, vivid yet mundane. His lashes supplicate themselves before the hue, fluttering as much as the shroud; the gesture ruffles the embellishments of a decorated sleeve, allowing for glimpses of the slender wrist enveloped within. Beneath the cocooning silk of white gloves, the young man's flesh is impossibly pale—nearly translucent, even in the dark—, the same drained color as one who has seen some recent horror. She would wonder at the source of that fear if she did not know it.

But Josie does. Intimately.

"Cecil," she replies in kind, her opaque eyes tracing the impassive contours of his muted features. But beneath that ivory façade, she can sense some niggling worm of confusion. Her tone is as silvery as the thick stripes of hoar in her ebony hair. "Much has changed since our last encounter, my lord Marquis."

"For you, perhaps," the other intones, with an insipidness that hinges between apathy and jealousy. Finely drawn eyebrow arcs, not unlike the vaulted ceilings of gothic structures. "Have you made new friends in Low places?"

"High places, I should like to believe," Josie retorts with corresponding wryness. She twists a fraction more, her diaphanous dupatta flaring from her shoulders like the tips of feathered wings. Filaments of threaded gold shimmer like sunbeams in the iridescent gossamer, as if a holy radiance had been petrified, preserved, and woven into that fabric. Haloed both by the gauzy corona of the headdress and the reflection of tapers glowing upon the distant stage, she is as much in the shadows as she is in the spotlight. "These new friends are partial to order and logic."

Cecil hums. A chorus of cellos moan in a show of solidarity, though the plangent cries that leave their wooden bodies are imbued with far more emotion than the single murmur which escapes his frame. "Logically, no humans should survive as long as we," he acknowledges, the words plaited monotonously into the song of the strings. And there are so many strings: threads of spiders and fate and catgut, plucked and snapping.

"Just so," Josie agrees, speaking with a sharpness echoed by the conductor's baton. Far below, he directs; high above, she does the same, and both are judged by their audiences in the most critical of silences. They persevere, regardless. "These new friends are the antithesis to what ails us, Sir: the analytical sense of reason which counterbalances the wildness of personified emotions. They are cure and poison."

The Marquis considers this with the same languid meticulousness as he lifts and lowers near-lucent lids. "You are dying, then," he deciphers, oddly idle. The tone he uses is one of understanding, but it has been pointedly deflated of interest. Punctured, and emptied of concern. He considers his fingers, as if those spindly digits might be sullied from having burst a physical embodiment of his own retort and left coated in the dregs of his own drained distress.

But Cecil is immaculate. Untouched. Stony, even, and distant as the crescent moon; the sickle slivers of his eyes glint in the waning light as he glances up in time to see his companion shrug. Dismissive, glib.

"At a reasonable rate."

"In terms of change or charge?" he drawls, the mask of his face made heavy by his lack of enthusiasm. By his lack of anything. Strange, really, that Nothing should weigh so much. Josie's brow sags in her effort to bear that burden, folding like knees or elbows beneath the mounting encumbrance of it. Her expression collapses in defeat. The flatness of her voice is reminiscent of something crushed.

"If you are inquiring as to my Eyes, I assure you that they remain clear," she informs him, returning the vast majority of her attentions to the entertainment beyond. "What does the blind one wish to See, then?"

"A ruined garden."

The reply is immediate, falling from twisted lips like the setting sun: darkly. The star of an amethyst bindi twinkles in a twilight that smells of resin, tree sap. Loam, intoxicatingly fresh and laced thickly with seeds. Wrists made fragrant by yarrow are once more planted upon the rail, stacked delicately one atop the other to form the base of an imposing tower. Those hands tremble, if slightly; they make a crumbling foundation, threatened now by the seeping mire of desire. There are thoughts of ichor and Icarus as the Marquis whispers, "A lawn demolished. Deracinated, with flowers withered and trees felled. A gazebo reduced to lathes of wood, its carcass abandoned and left rotting in the sand of a desolate valley, barren of all life. Desertion and deserts. That is what I wish."

Applause rains delicately from a sky clouded by canopies, landing with echoed pitters and patters on the audience in the hall. There is a moment for the orchestra to silently soak in the praise. Then— like a single spring sprout pushing through the dirt— a violinist steps forward, his limbs twining outward like the offshoots of ivy. His fingers coil lightly about the trellis of his bow; music blooms outward in blue rose spirals, perfumed airs unfurling from the voids of elaborate sound holes. There is a mystery to it. A mystery to it all. All of this. Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber's appropriate subtitled Passacaglia simpers from the solo instrument's vocal cords, supplicating to unseen angels.

If those angels form a coherent reply, Josie does not share it. Instead, with a dreary hum, she murmurs, "Weeds root deeply, my Lord, holding secure loose earth. Jewels are more than pretty trinkets of compressed refuse—they, too, are sedimentary layers of rock, serving to keep the ground solid. To keep everything _stable_," she finishes with some significance. The melody resonating from below cracks into two; the pointedness of so much subtly prods at Cecil in unpleasant ways. He bristles, gaze narrowing in the only show of irritation that he will allow himself.

"You will not help me till this field, then," the Marquis paraphrases dully. His companion ignores the accusation that poisons the dagger of his glare, though the knife of it digs painfully into the back she's left exposed. Let him verbally attack her, if that is what he wants to do. It would not be the first time. She has endured worse. With something closer to indifference than bravery, Josie rejoinders:

"I See no reason to try."

"Then allow me to give you one, my dear," Cecil snaps, the timbre of his tone ascending along with a series of discordant trills. "There are four others like us. Four others like your _mother_. Four others who are, even now, suffer under the influence of an unspeakable, unknowable burden, having been cursed through—presumably— their associations with my family. If we can pluck the Pit from the earth before roots form, we might yet save those souls. But for that, I require your assistance. My memories before the age of five have been plowed. If there were ever any records of what happened in Night Vale, they have been destroyed, and what few leads I had managed to uncover through research of my own has all led to dead ends and cliff faces. I have, indeed, become the blind one. I need a prophet to See what path to next take," he concludes, with an escalating desperateness mimicked by the music. Josie, in turn, mirrors the bow: her head sliding back and forth and back and forth, encouraging more hopeless sounds to spill out of the other.

"No, my Lord," she sighs, with the nuanced exasperation of all those who Know Better. "That is not what you need."

"Indeed?"

The drone is as level as a bare stage, empty even of musicians. It invites some player to build a fantastical world atop it, to cast illusions of some other realm. It encourages the suspension of disbelief; it encourages many things. A gesticulation prompts her further, urging sets and scenes and story. If nothing else, he will have the latter. "Then, pray tell, what _do_ I need of you?"

Upon the railing, intersecting wrists twitch. Palms splayed, fingers tight, Josie's hands and arms resemble in pattern a large lilac butterfly. Something similar flitters within the marble cage of the Marquis' chest. There is a beat, more of wings than of heart.

"It is not what you need _of_ me," the woman then slowly corrects, her outcast eyes the same tint as ruptured milkweed. The butterflies feed. The sonata flurries, eddying in ethereal kaleidoscopes through the auditorium, climbing higher and higher. "It is what you shall need _from_ me. The day will come that my blinded brother truly require my assets, and at that time I shall give them freely. Until then," she adds, cutting off some anticipated rebuttal, "I might only suggest finding a Magician."

There is a lull. In speech, in song. A frown slices through the shielding veil of shadows, cutting away curtaining darkness. Feeling exposed, the Marquis replaces evanescent drapery with a shield of a more tangible textile. The half of his brow that remains visible beyond the hangings makes an effort to emulate rippling velvet: both crumple into folds.

"A Magician?" he echoes carefully, as if the word is as deserving of mistrust as the master of deception it is used to label. Josie responds with a sound that might have been a snort, though it is too muffled by the returning swell of the melody to say for certain.

"Why, yes. When one suffers a problem of the teeth, they visit a dentist. When neatly coifed hair has evolved into a mess, a trip to the barber's is advisable. When addled by a curse, therefore, is it not natural to seek out a Magician?"

Cecil considers this logic. His nostrils flare, his eyes narrow; he acts with an intensity most frequently utilized by jewelers inspecting gems for flaws. When he finally accepts her advice as the insight that it is, he pockets it to be carried around and treasured like something precious. His mouth thins into a silvery line, not unlike a chain upon which to affix a pearl— of wisdom or otherwise.

"Where shall I find one?" he quietly demands, in a voice which already suggests two different sorts of blossoming plots. His somber conviction is frustratingly belittled by a vague titter of amusement. He glowers, knowing his companion is smiling without needing to see her face. He knows something else is smiling, also without needing to see It.

"Oh, London hosts an amalgam of peoples, my Lord," Josie tells him with blitheness, flippantly flipping her fingers. The calm of her mannerisms is at odds with the flustered heartbeat of the violin, notes flying about like the petals of burst florets. Blue. Blue, like the eyes that watch her from the dark. "Hermit though you are, you might yet keep watch for a suitable candidate from the window. No doubt a one will wander past eventually."

The Marquis hums. It is not a noise of gratitude, but neither is it one of thanklessness. "A Magician…" he murmurs once more, rolling the gifted word on his tongue like some brand of foreign candy. He considers its flavor with a reserve that gives nothing away. But then, neither does he give back what has been presented to him. Instead, Cecil tips his head, gracious. Bowing. As he does, a chestnut loop of his tousled locks curls against his temple, taking on the shape of a waxing moon. The strand shines against the inverted heavens of his pallid skin, tempting those who see it to touch it, but no—the moon cannot be reached. Not by her powers, anyway. Josie does not even try, focusing instead on the woodbine affection which creeps into his gently offered, "My thanks, Madame."

He turns. She hears it. She hears something else, too. Hears it like a leaflet pushing through its bud, like a chrysalis as it begins to shatter. Like a bush gaining berries, small and sweet and black as the night beyond the amphitheater.

"Cecil," she says, only now with a somberness to match his own. "Happy birthday."

A door opens behind the woman, spilling a silhouette across the floor. The ink of it oozes, sullying the ornate plush of a patterned carpet. Over rugs, chairs, and balcony occupant, there is a saturating stain of something humanoid: elongated and engulfing. The shadow's ichor-smooth undulations are commanded to a sudden stillness by the surprise of the one who'd summoned it.

"It is not my birthday," Cecil objects, toneless in his bemusement. He may not be completely certain when his birthday is, precisely, but he is quite sure it is not today. Josie confirms this suspicion with a tender croon of concurrence.

"Perhaps not," she says pithily, though not without some humored dryness. "But it is indeed a birthday, and that will someday make you happy."

The Marquis snorts.

"With all due respect, my dear," he returns, in a graveled voice as cold as stone, "this is the one prediction you have made that I find I have no faith in. I know nothing of 'happiness,' and I never shall."

A haunting vibrato vibrates through stagnant air, lingering. Longing.

The pianissimo hush of a resonant finale drowns out the _click_ of a closing door.

**XXX**

From crystal-cure and google:

_Amethyst: _A gem for pleasant dreams, as well as clearing and keeping sober the mind. Used as a guard against guilt, self-deception, and witchcraft, while simultaneously promoting spiritual and psychic centers, opening one's third eye. Used in churches as a symbol of sincerity, piety, humility, and wisdom.

_Woodbine_: A type of climbing honeysuckle. Its berries are poisonous. In the language of flowers, it represents fraternal affection, or love between siblings.


	3. Aquamarine, 1885

**Disclaimer: **No.

**Author's Note: **This particular installment relates directly to "Aquamarine." As in, it takes place almost immediately after that fic ends. So, on the off-chance that you were looking for an excuse to go re-read a bit of porn…

Much thank and many love to Dangersocks for continuing to be so incredibly awesome and supportive and helpful, both as a coauthor and as a beta.

**Warnings: **See above.

**XXX**

_There is darkness, and there is light. There is wakefulness, and there is sleep. There are questions, and there are answers. Existence is full of equivalents and antitheses: things which he may possess in similar abundance, but never simultaneously. He cannot have both darkness and light, wakefulness and sleep, questions and answers. Only one. One at a time. _

_One at a time._

_He pushes the teardrop of amethyst from the malleable vice of the machine, and the steady light cast by the electric coil trapped behind it loses its violet tint. The room becomes sallow, exorcised of its phantasmagorias. Emptied of its ghosts and their residual emotions. In the place of things that comfort, that serve as memories of life and self and companionship, there is a far more frightening vision: swollen shadows and undulant darkness, thick-limbed and scrabbling in ways that catch both the eye and the edge of the heart. The apparition gorges itself on the gloom; it leaps and it seizes. It blurs and it lunges. It flails on the flat of the wall like a grotesque spider would upon its web, and he is so distracted by what might yet be caught up and consumed by those lucent strands that he forgets, and fears, and falls briefly away from what proves to be no more than the silhouette of his own hand._

_How easy, he thinks. How easy it is to become distorted. How easy it is to appear a monster. How extraordinarily easy it is to judge. _

_But he will not. He refuses. It is a trap, he knows, that others would wish to see him pushed into. A trap that he cannot allow himself to be caught by; he knows that it is not his place to judge. It is not his right. No— it is not his _role_. He is not Judgment. He is…_

_He… _

_He breathes. He breathes in darkness, and wakefulness. He breathes in silence. He breathes in questions, and feels those queries wedge in odd, crystalline shapes in the back of his throat. The shards of warped vowels and jagged consonants erode atop his quavering tongue, numbing his senses and fizzling like poison. To save himself, he should spit them out. He should. He should, but— _

"You should not ask a question if you are not ready to hear the answer."

_He is not ready. He does not think he shall ever be ready. _

_He misses stories. _

**X**

**The Dark Box**

_Aquamarine, 1885_

**X**

The ocean heaves. It sways and it moans, fingers of foam pawing plaintively at the meddlesome boat which has invaded its tranquility. Wetness retches, one moment suckling at a hull, the next spitting it out; water gags on what disturbances clog it, on things that toss and scrape pale lines into its surface. What had once been gloss-smooth is left shattered.

The ocean heaves. The brine burbles, frantic as it rushes hither and thither, back and forth, trying to hide the skeletons of its secrets. To obscure the beasts that wait below. Obsidian waves peel like skin from the skulls of the dead as the ship's ornate bow cleaves through a storm, the groan of worn wood imitating the harmonic howls of selkies.

The ocean heaves. It heaves and it heaves, and it is not the only entity that does so. It is not alone in swaying, in moaning, in plaintively pawing. It is not alone in burbling and trying to hide its secrets. It is not alone in its groans. The sea retches, forcing serpents from its belly, and from the belly of that vessel comes a similar retching—the sound of demons being forced out.

A gag. A splatter, not unlike the surf as it bursts against the shore.

And then there is wheezing. There is rawness and shallow desperation, the keens of a man half-drowned and dripping brackish liquid. Clammy hands cling to remembered vestiges of air; he shudders, but does not let go. Does not surrender. Does not break the promise he had made to himself, even as he closes broken eyes and vomits needles.

One needle.

_Not_ a needle. Not a spinning needle, anyway, for though it is enchanted, the wounds it rends do not put Cecil to sleep. Rather, he feels very much awake. He stares at the gem from behind a sheen of saline.

It is long. Very long. Nearly _too_ long— if it had been any longer, it would have pierced through the soft of his palate as it ascended, severing the stem at the back of his skull. But it had not. Somehow, it had not. Its jagged claws had only scraped at that tender ridge of flesh before tipping into the depression of his tongue, riding that passage out of an inflamed esophagus. With a guttural sob, the brittle blue bundle of pin-sharp beryl had slid into the sink with an obscene and slippery ease, leaving the Marquis sputtering around the taste of cold earth and warm copper.

"_H-hah_… _hah…_"

Milky stalactites dribble from the plundered cavern of his mouth. Thick formations of mud and spangled saliva glitter in the guttering gleam of a single candle. Within the gilded mount of an ornamental mirror, that taper's frosted image parodies its patron: if one flame falls to its left, the other will lurch to its right; if one flame lurches to the right, the other will fall to its left. They are identical and opposite.

_They_ are identical and opposite— a sack of flesh and its frame of opalized bones— yet as the trembling Marquis pitches bodily forward, his reflection does not scare and tumble back. Instead, it leaps close, too: curiously intrusive. They meet crown to crown over the basin of the washbowl, their ivory flesh as glassy with sweat as the expunged treasure is simply glassy.

It spins. The crystal clatters within its porcelain pan, the sound as chime-sweet and shrill as its extraction had been plangently raucous. Cecil reels once more, panting. Lashes flutter, and shining eyes reopen to find that the dagger-thin gemstone has been beautified by a splattered mess of blooming blots. By a sprinkle of rose-colored petals, decorative and soft.

The blemishes are not rose petals, decorative or soft. Thorns have left welts in his throat, perhaps, but there are no flowers. Not yet.

Not yet.

The Marquis smirks, regarding the jewel with some twisted sense of victory. The back of one wrist scrubs against the corner of his mouth; the quivering fingertips of the other pluck the pale gem from the drain. Aquamarine, he observes, holding the shard to the light. Of course.

"Oh dear," he then murmurs to the shadows, speaking in a husk as dark as ink and effervescent humor. "Whatever is the matter? Do you not approve of what has been said? How peculiar. And here I had been lead to believe that honesty is integral to love."

He touches idly at the tip of the gemstone, unsurprised by the sooty bead that gurgles up from beneath the froth of his skin. It seems appropriate that oil and ichor would pulse beneath that thin facade, fueling the token body of the Black King. He bleeds, and the lavish washroom smells headily of pine and cherry blossoms, of flowers as pale as weary features. There is magnificence and terror in that monochrome contrast: like the spray of the whitecaps that crest the ebony depths. Those crushing, murky depths, where nothing should rightly live.

But something does.

_To display oneself in any way is a process, _a dissenting Voice articulates from the mysterious gloom. Each of its syllables resonate without sound, reverberating against the pearlescent shell of the Marquis' cloistered ears are left ringing in the wake of the sensual drawl, their inner chambers threatening to pop like rising bubbles. That pressure weighs against his shoulders, and he knows that it should hurt. Yet it does not hurt. Not anymore.

Cecil grimaces, his teeth less gritted than they are bared: silvery-slick and lustrous like ivory. Like the hollow bones of something left to rot, exposed and bleached to perfect whiteness in a scorching desert sun. The face in the mirror returns the expression, as faces in mirrors are wont to do. He glowers at himself, knowing full well that the reflection can do no more than misuse what he offers it. And yet, somehow, the expression captured within that pane seems to him impossibly altered. Distorted, as if by the ripples that would pervert the still of a scrying pool. A glare becomes a glint; a scowl becomes a smirk. Undeterred, the Voice in his head expounds in a coo, _There is little allure in shedding all layers at once. Whether we speak of clam or concubine, the revelation of what awaits within one's innermost core should be saved for very last. Consider, if you would, a single glimpse beneath a scarlet cloak. It is much more enticing than a swiftly bared chest, if but for the tease of it all. Do you not think…? _

The lilt curdles upward like a weedy stalk of rue. It buds, innocent; it is cut down, violent. With a snort and a single sharp sweep of an arm, gem meets glass with a grating _grind_. The crystal chinks, much like the throat of the presence in the mirror.

"What I think is that the idea of being exposed frightens you," the Marquis rasps, pallid eyes winking as much as the fracturing shaft of aquamarine. His double is pinned beneath its rapier point, a pulse flurrying like butterfly wings. The polished corners of Cecil's simper are similarly sharp, enough so to prick and poison as he purrs, "No— no, the idea of him knowing _terrifies _you. If he were to learn the truth, you do not trust that he would stay."

_He _would_ stay_, the other retorts, almost too swiftly. Almost. The stagnant air in the intimate enclosure of the lavatory gains a mysterious sweetness; wallflower, pungent and stubborn. Overwhelmingly so. And yet, it is not enough to smother the whispered hint of marigold, ethereal as sunshine and tremulous as fraying snorts, the stench cloying on the back of his tongue. The creature elucidates with a confidence that adds a near painful pressure to the slats of sheathing ribs. _He finds us fascinating. And after all that he has experienced, all of the adventure and magic, how could he possibly leave? Where else might he go? _

"I can think of a place."

The retort is as delicate as the squeak of a door hinge, the whimper of footsteps over plush carpeting. Beyond the barrier of a pseudo purgatory waits a desk and a chair, a nightstand and a bed. A room, embellished in cherry wood the color of drying blood, haunted by shadows that feast on gutted candles. Tendrils of gloom twine and curl with the possessiveness of barbs, wreathing themselves in the tousled tresses of a lolling head. A man, captured. A man, sleeping. Obsidian curls and suede limbs contrast handsomely with the loose swaddling of the eiderdown, those covers artfully imbued with the stitched impressions of fleur-de-lis. The lone figure breathes beneath the lay of his shroud, his bare chest rising and falling in mimicry of the sea. Rising and falling, and both surfaces glisten, their expanses dappled in starry whiteness. Hoary threads of those embroidered blooms shine in fulgurant streaks, stealing what light they can from a dull corona of indigo. Using it.

They are not alone in stealing. In using.

_You would have him go to Scarborough in another's stead? _A snort, incredulous. Disbelieving. Refusing to believe. _Goodness me, Little One, but that is heartless._

Cecil slides without sound atop the sprawling sheets, retorting in just as much silence:

"It is not a heart that I lack."

_Indeed_, the ether agrees, with a lilt that winds like the key of a music box. The Voice in the Marquis' mind is evocatively singsong as it keens, _It is not amaranths that cracks through your inner soil… And yet, you _were _cracking, were you not? Oh, do not bother trying to deny it, Young Master_, the other taunts, speaking in tones as wantonly obscene as the stench that still clings to the blankets. Within those fabric shackles, Cecil sits as primly as a porcelain statuette, painted eyes staring sightlessly outward as he is mocked with affection. _You cannot help but care for this lovely man. Admit it. You have always been soft, dear—it is in the nature of opals— and you have further been tainted by my influence. You are dying. You are being dyed. So why not surrender, hmm? _

Its wheedled words wind like worms. Slither like snakes. The soothing stench of lavender seeps in viscid blots through open pores, its perfume plating with the intangible violet vines that greedily cradle a slumbering body. Those same creeping wisps coil up pallid limbs, their touch insubstantial and yet— _Let yourself go, my dear. Let my love overflow. Forget those shards of hope and quartz and glass that you cling to. Forget those treasured fragments of self that you try so desperately to hide. Forget about Mountains and the Child who come from them. Or, if you cannot, I could—_

The blackness slinks inward. A white arm snaps _out_. There is no change in expression: no twitch of thin lips, no flick of colorless eyes—no hesitation, no mercy. There is nothing but the shrill snarl of sliced air, the gossamer hiss of a peignoir, then an abrupt and deadly silence: the sound of a crystalline shard poised meaningfully atop the soft of a bared and trusting throat.

"If you make a single threat against that life, I shall end this one," Cecil murmurs dully. The serrated tip of the aquamarine in his fist hovers a single, scant millimeter above the weakest of his lover's flesh, ready to prove that there is more than one way to break a heart. The promise of this lingers, untouched by quivers or qualms. Untouched by shadows. Untouched by anything at all, for though desperate stems of darkness still weave and writhe about the mattress, they have lost their anchor. Their grip to their castor has been severed, their roots displaced and squirming. Silhouettes bend in improbable ways, curdling backward as their offshoots spiral uselessly.

There is frustration. It is palpable. It is not the Marquis'. No, the Marquis is without emotion as he gazes into the invisible distance, speaking in a tone of almost frightening impassivity. "If I feel nothing," he reminds, "you have no power over me. And I assure you— I feel _nothing_."

The threat makes its impression. The beryl does, too: the tiniest pearl of crimson growing where an irritant had lain.

There is a hum. An idle shushing, not unlike the throb of the tide.

_Nothing…?_

With tender consideration, the fingers curled around the gemstone are pared lose. They open like a flower bud; they wilt like decaying petals. They relinquish what they had previously held within, and that eviscerated jewel lands with import against the jut of Cecil's left hip. It catches and clatters, slipping over the hem of laced trousers and tumbling like a boulder down that ridge. Beneath the veneer of clothing and diaphanous flesh, fault lines threaten to shift once more. To split. To collide. Mountains form where plates of earth converge, pushed together by forces beyond man's control. The raised edges of a hidden scar do the same, its ranges a constant reminder of that which threatens to crush and consume. And that warning repeats itself, reprising like a song. Like _the_ song:

_On the crest of his head arises your pyre  
__The marks on his flesh tally souls that you've felled  
__With one eye missing, the Child of the Mountain  
__Cannot yet see that he's destined for Hell_

The aquamarine slips to the floor. Cecil slips beneath the bedding, curling upon his side. The backs of two fingers slip down the camber of a stunning profile: an unfelt touch which ends atop the bone of Carlos' cheek. The fragile hand lingers, much like a shared lullaby.

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair?  
Death, destruction, bloodshed, and gore," the monstrous Marquis whispers in ribbons of smoothness and silk. He plants a kiss upon the shell in which his siren's song resounds; a seed of thought is buried, pressed in deep and left to root. Covered. Ashen eyes are covered, too. The hoods of papery lids grow heavy, though Cecil has no need of sleep. There are many things that Cecil Palmer does not need. "Remember me to one who'll die there  
For he once was a true love of yours."

**XXX**

**From crystalvaults:** Aquamarine represents the sea, and is known for its soothing properties. It is a stone of communication, breath, and the throat, inspiring trust and truth; it clears channels of thought, and – like a scrying pool—its reflection allows people to discover hidden facts about themselves and any given reality. It is a stone of prophets, healers, and mystics. When exchanged by lovers, it encourages harmony despite differences, and serves as a token of eternity.

**From languageofflowers**:

African Marigold: Uneasiness  
Amaranth (amaranthus): Heartless  
Black pine: Boldness  
Cherry tree (white): Deception  
Lavender: Calmness, distrust (the latter due to the superstition that poisonous asps often lurk beneath these flowers)  
Rue: Disdain  
Wallflower: Fidelity in adversity


	4. Onyx, 1871

**Disclaimer:** Still no.

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for the comments last chapter! Your feedback means the world, truly. I hope you continue to enjoy Dark Box/Resurrection Lily/your  
existence on this plane of consciousness!

Appreciation and gratitude and butterflies to Dangersocks, too, for being such a capable beta.

**Warnings:** Mild domesticity, maybe?

**XXX**

_He heaves._

_Bile is climbing up the back of his throat, rising like the tide and frothing within his esophagus. The acid ebbs and its flavor flows, effervescent sourness lapping at his tongue as the surf would the twilight shore. His stomach rolls; his skin is damp; he falls momentarily against the wall, gasping for breath around splutters._

_He heaves, feeling as if he had just been intimate with a riptide. But no—no, he had been intimate with far worse. And perhaps he even knew, in some capacity. Or sensed, at least, near the end of things; all was not as calm and smooth and serene as it appeared upon the surface. Still, to infer and to know are equivalents—not equals. Supposed facts had not been impartial, and collected data had not been definitive. Not until…_

_His fingertips grind against the surface of the aquamarine, nails catching against chinks in its facets and faces. Frozen within the oceanic blue of the gem, the feathery imprints of pallid impurities create suds-soft lattices, pocketed with microscopic bubbles. He feels as if he is drowning within that jewel; he feels as if he is fragmenting like it. He can feel his world shattering—the foundation of beliefs and assumptions that he had built his life upon washed away with the mercilessness of surging tidal waves. Water gives life, and it takes it. It helps things grow; it erodes them. It seeps into the hardest of stones, and it breaks them into pieces._

_He has never been stony or hard-hearted. He had never stood a chance. And now he feels broken, in pieces, raw and exposed: scattered as much as the jewels in this Box, glinting like viscera in an open chest. He aches, and he hurts, and all evidence points to being unable to live like this…_

_Despairing, empathetic, he wonders how others had._

**X**

**The Dark Box**

**Onyx, 1871**

**X**

Water trickles.

Steady, resonant. It is a thin sound, sweetly soprano— pitched as if to harmonize with the plating fragrances of lathered soaps. Cleansing liquid tumbles in milky tears down the slope of a buttoned nose, rolling over the fragile ridges of a straining spine; it slips from the camber of dark arms in balmy beads, stirring the collected pool beneath. It soaks into the tendrils and roots of sodden locks, leaving the silk of flowing ringlets plastered in vortex-black whorls against the damp of a temple, a forehead, a nape. The water cleaves, and tresses cling, and the child clutches desperately to her own crooked knees, quavering in the porcelain basin. She is a pearl: curled and hardened within the cloister of her own shell, unsure of how else to process so much unbelievable pain.

The nails of her right hand have tautened into talons, as avian as the screech that had earlier shaken the walls of the manor— that had warped the window's glass, and had added ichor to the gloom of the corners. Even now, the sound of that shriek continues to resound in some unheard capacity, the echo of it thrumming through the fingers of the child's left hand. Upturned and cradled, those slender digits twitch with the threat of becoming claws.

Yet for all of that tension, the little girl does nothing more than sit. Quiet now. Calming now, even if she is not yet calm. There is something to be said for rituals and their abilities to mollify, beyond that which might be inferred from stories of vengeful gods and placated demons. This is the sixth time in as many nights that they two have found themselves here: one week since Adana's guardian had discovered her frantically scrubbing the skin from her hands in the hours before dawn. Panting. Panicked. She had stared at him mutely from her roost beside the sink, hair mussed, fingers raw. Pendant shining. Her eyes had swirled with the same idle hollowness as the abyss of that stone. Sable, and shadowed, and sunken, and empty—twin pits carved into deep earth, void even of worms and things that slither.

Her eyes are still disturbingly dark. In spite of this, Cecil thinks he may yet mine some flecks of gold from within those depressions. In the daylight, he will again suggest drawing their nightmares: he will ink for her a garden, and she will smear for him bloodied charcoal whirlpools. They will burn both pieces of parchment in the fireplace, and the Marquis will comment on how neither the visions nor the flames will hurt the child if she is careful. If she removes herself from them. If she learns how to keep such dangerous things contained. And the girl will nod, her features grim, as the conflagration's embers catch on the aurulent filaments woven into her irises.

But for now the only thing that shines is the gild upon the taps; the ceramic in the candlelight; the dampest patches of Adana's burnet flesh. The touch of the washing cloth is as soft as the tapers' roseate glow as Cecil dabs her clean skin cleaner, meticulous and thorough. Lingering, if only to supply the child with some grounding point of contact. Saturated gloves of cotton-white chafe away the imagined impurities hiding in the gaps between willowy fingers; he traces the shallow grooves hewn into the flat of her palm, circling the crescent moons of her cuticles. Dewdrops ooze between them, condensation coalescing and taking the shape of splintering ravines. A cascade of crystalline fluid dribbles morbidly down her inner wrist, but the Marquis does not allow himself to think of bloodletting.

There is no blood here. That is very much the point.

"_Shall we clean your tourmaline, as well?_" he asks, in a voice as low and silken as sleep. It is lulling, and intentionally so; the silhouettes hung upon the wall flicker languidly, somnolent upon lucent puppet strings. Cecil keeps his eyes especially on the shade of the child, tracing its contours and comparing it to its castor. They are a match today. There is no Other, no looming shade to blot out the stars and throw her into deeper darkness. But he is willing to indulge in over-cautiousness if that is what it takes to help this little one feel comfortable in her own skin.

Adana shakes her head, brow burrowed against the bony caps of her knees.

"_Would you like to wash your hair?_"

There is stillness. Consideration. Every knob and lump and awkward protuberance of her spine strains against the thin veneer of her flesh, pushing like the fingertips of trapped, scrabbling things. Then she shakes her head once more.

It is progress. Faster progress than the Marquis had anticipated, quite frankly. He smiles, the gentle expression cracking the corners of his somber façade and shining up like opal beneath duller stone. Behind the curtaining sweep of flaxen bangs, his right eye is a mess of similar fragments, azure and argent; his left remains like sapphire, resilient and durable. Undamaged, its surface marred only by ripples in the reflection of the bathwater. He remains strong for her—in spite of her— his touch as icy as diamonds beneath the protection of his gloves. She shudders. She whispers:

"…_is it on your hands, too?_"

Cecil blinks once, lids flickering like a butterfly startled from its blossom. "_I beg your pardon?_" he politely inquires, pointedly refusing to draw attention to the fact that this is the most he has yet heard the child speak. To treat such a creature as if this and they are ordinary is the most effective way to stimulate healing, he knows. And once said creature has normalized, then she—like those freaks before her— can learn to deal with the fact that she will never be normal. "_Is what on my hands, Little Cinquefoil?_"

"_Blood_," she answers flatly, in a retort as empty of emotion as her eyes are of life. The deadened gaze has fixated on the pale of perfumed spume, the same ashen color as charred corpses and burned cities and scorched earth. And bloodlessness. There is no blood. And soon there will no longer be bubbles, either, or darkness, or warmth. Time drips on, spiraling steadily away; its passing will eventually bring serenity, sunlight, and cool numbness. But for now, it brings only the demand, "_Is it on your hands, too, Master?_"

"_Hm? What makes you ask that?_" the Marquis wishes to know, neither confirming nor denying the girl's probing suspicions. He is, after all, probing her in turn, albeit in a more literal way. Soapy gloves poke gingerly at rumpling skin, tracing the vines of veins and adding fingerprint flowers to their offshoots. Adana endures the ministrations with only a squirm. Faint. Not uncomfortable. The movement carves deep ripples into the froth of the water, for the angles of her body are unusually sharp for a child of her age. Not, apparently, unlike her mind.

"_Because_," she tells her guardian bluntly, "_you do not touch anything. Not if you can help it. But you always look like you want to. So it's not that you won't, it's that you can't._" An arm of sinew and skin flinches, twitching from its twine-tight knot around raised knees. A resting chin tips, jarring precarious curls; skeletal fingers loop around a thick rope of hair, pulling loose the snare it had formed around her throat. And perhaps in rejecting the nuanced suggestion of the coil's tender hold, Adana's voice gains a note of animation— like a dying music box given a tentative crank. When she thinks about it, she is not quite ready to fade, to give up the ghost. Especially now—now that she is on the cusp of gaining some kindred spirit. She shifts a little more, staring shamelessly; the bottomless pits of her eyes await some seed of wisdom to be planted within them as she queries, "_Is it because of the blood? Is that why you are always wearing those?_"

She nods towards his hands. He pulls those hands away, elbows heavy on the lip of the washtub. Fabric-swathed fingertips rest against the water with the delicacy of gerrids, barely breaking its surface tension. And there is quite a bit of tension on the surface.

But within, Cecil is calm. Like the empty sea, somewhere equally beyond the horizon and beneath the cresting waves. Tranquil and dark, his heart is as stagnant as those depths that currents cannot disturb, yet may still hold pearls waiting for harvest. He considers those treasures, as well as the fleshy tongues on which they rest, and remembers how little irritants can occasionally become beloved and precious.

It is an inconvenient truth. Most truths are. But without that sturdy core, that grating granule of honesty, a lie will always, always fall apart. The Marquis of Night Vale knows this well, for he is quite adapt at lying. And so he tells his shivering charge, "Yes."

She does not know the word. But her education must start somewhere, and the tone, the expression—it speaks in a language beyond words. Adana swallows, understanding. Accepting.

"_Does it… Does the blood ever come off?_" she asks, not with petulance, but instead with the sobering stoutness of a martyr willing to accept the accumulated weight of the world's sins. Her shoulders may sag, but she holds her head tall... And if it is ultimately discovered that one or two of those sins are, in fact, her own, well— then the child shall at least have the benefit of facing future suffering with the imbued grace of a woman who has already come to terms with her fate. With crime and with punishment.

Against the flat of ribs and bones, a tourmaline slips. Shines, strung heavily upon a noose. Without sound, Cecil reaches out to touch the cool gloss of its surface, the cold camber of Adana's cheek; his expression is as smoothly sympathetic as an executioner's, or a Father's.

"No," he then tells her candidly. Gently, for there is cruelty in kindness and kindness in cruelty, and the Marquis knows not how to give one without the other. "_But one does grow used to the color._"

A little fist grasps to the branch of his fingers, clutching to him like a perching chick. Her nails are jagged; those claws grind, tremulous and tight. And later, once the child is dried and dressed and nestled back in bed, Cecil will regard his hand and notice a spattering of speckled scarlet— stains on his gloves that he will not be able to wash out.

He wears them anyway, and Adana does not comment.

**XXX**

**From crystal-cure and ringswithlove:** Onyx is a grounding stone, best known for imbuing strength and encouraging separation. It can be used to help split oneself away from dark emotions, sorrow, and grief, and is considered an excellent talisman for those looking to end unhealthy relationships. It defends the wearer against negativity and evil, fortifies one's sense of confidence, and helps in the formation of a healthy brand of egotism.


	5. Moonstone, 1877

**Disclaimer: **Nope nope nope~

**Author's Note: **Behold, the scandalous adventure of the tailored dress briefly mentioned in "A Taste of Something!" I hope it makes you smile. :)

**Warnings: **Humor, derp, flirting, crossdressing. References events and characters from Dangersocks' brilliant "Fortune Favours" series. A glossary of terms and general information can be found at the end of the story. Much love and thanks to Dangersocks for her support and betaing. Also to asmilewaiting for nerding out with me, as well as for allowing me be antisocial on her computer so as to post this monstrosity. XD; And, of course, love and thanks to all of you who read this, as well. So much love.

So much Love.

**XXX**

_He knows this one._

_This one he _knows_._

_The moonstone rests in his palm, its shape familiar and its sheen rosy. There is a vitality to its luster, yes, but it had not been bequeathed by the same cleansing polish used to keep its brethren vibrant. Leaning close, he observes an organic oiliness to this jewel's surface: a slickness that the others had lacked. It is the glassy residue of fingers and their labyrinthine prints; of broad, caressing thumbs that would worry and twiddle and stroke at the stone. Beneath the embossment of bygone touches, the gem's natural gloss is dulled, but not lost._

_Other things have been lost, though. So much has been lost. _

_Its ornamentation is gone. There is guilt, he muses, but no gilt— no frame to make a brooch of the gem, once-loved and once-cherished. Once worn. Once abandoned, left behind with a cloak dyed in similar shades of red.__Cupped in his hands, the moonstone's coquelicot color leaves him thinking of rust, and sunset, and the tears that had welled within fractures of fissured flesh, pale cheeks stained with torn tendrils and tubers of bloodroot. _

_So many flowers._

_The jewel grinds into his palm, smooth and cool as a child's skipping stone. And he could throw it, he knows. He could throw it hard and far. He could throw it and watch how it contorts the surface of his perceived reality, how it further warps their reflections. How it rings and ripples and affects everything that comes after it, skipping like heartbeats__._

_Or he could throw it, as others had, back into the Box. He could throw it into the sinking darkness, into memories and despair__._

_He could throw it. _

_But he knows this one. This one he _knows_. And so, he wants to know. He has to know._

_He needs to know. _

**X**

**The Dark Box**

_Moonstone, 1877_

**X**

There are whispers, of course.

Of course there are whispers. Gossip is a plague, rampant as locusts, that eats away at all higher forms of entertainment. Like insects, the elite swarm: swallowtail jackets flutter with the airiness of butterflies as variegated gowns swirl in kaleidoscopes. Beady eyes flick to and fro, back and forth, between those that they know, those that they don't know, and those that they don't yet know they don't know. The cicadae buzz of shared curiosity rises and falls, adding an undulant undercurrent to the heady air of the late summer party. Behind beetle-shell masks and the wing-like flicker of doily-patterned fans, the gentry pick apart hors d'oeuvre and each other. Noses scrunch in inquisitiveness, painted lips spin yarns. Spiderwebs form where ideas overlap and are expanded, with the more singular, fantastical claims tangling in the diaphanous threads. Words are wafted into those sticky strands; ideas hang like the corpses of flies, and those who hunger skitter hither and thither in an attempt to suck them dry. In an attempt to fill themselves. In an attempt to feel complete.

In an attempt to figure out just who these newcomers are, and what childish games they think they are playing. Hide and seek, perhaps? If so, they are very much found.

The ginger, at least, is recognizable tall and toned, his milky skin so heavily freckled that he nearly looks tan from a distance. The Earl of Harlan, it is murmured, Scottish in decent and worldly in his views. He is festooned in a smartly tailored suit and trousers— as befitting a man of his station— and wears the ensemble with an easy confidence, unperturbed by those who comment about how his attire's dark color clashes unfortunately with his vivid hair. There is nothing to be done about it; he had already made an effort to balance these aspects of his appearance. His waistcoat, for instance, boasts filaments of gold sewn into its hem. The tight stitching glints like stars, and the fob chain of his watch shines like the tail of a meteorite as it cuts across his waist. His crisp bowtie is the same shade of goldenrod that their host prefers, and so he and the swathing decorations woven throughout the ballroom serve to complement one another quite nicely. The clever flick of his silver tongue is doing much to charm, as well. All in all, he serves as an intriguing feature at this soiree—a fervently sought caller whose rarity makes him all the more desirable as a party guest.

Or, it could be argued, simply makes him more desirable, if the hunger that has honed the ladies' simpers is indicative of anything.

Either the women have decided to forget that Earl had first been spotted popping out from behind a marble column—his head hovering above another's like those faces carved into totem poles by the Colonies' Natives— or they have decided that a bit of eccentricity doesn't matter. Much as they have, apparently, decided that his having a fiancée does not matter.

The second face of the aforementioned totem stands demurely beside her intended, more delicate but equally fair. Her tresses—long and auburn—has been coiled into a loose plait, braided through with fragrant rosebuds the same crimson as her gown. Her lips are painted, and her lashes coaled; though she had forgone the more fashionable choice of a low neckline, the dress she wears is voguish enough: trimmed with dusk-pink pleats and flounces, rouching, and frills. The crests of her long satin gloves are lost beneath the intricate lacework that froths upon her sleeves, the flourishes of fabric as layered and tantalizing as the petals of her flowers. The embellishments are equally elegant upon the swell of her bustle and around the thin of her throat, where a ribbon of blood-colored velvet had been twined like ivy. The hem of the thick band drips with pearls as round as the moon that will soon be rising beyond the vestibule; from its center, a strung teardrop of rose quartz shimmers, unusually enchanting for so plain a stone. Her husband-to-be had introduced her to the throng as Janice, niece of the ever-elusive Marquis of Night Vale, and this revelation had sparked a flare of interest in those gathered. But for as many questions as she is asked, Janice does not answer.

Not in a way that most can understand, anyway.

"Ah! Cecil Palmer, you say? That occult hermit? A queer gent, him!" one of the more robust noblemen chortles, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching above the lip of his champagne flute. Janice looks his way with a tilt of her head, the sweep of her locks hiding half of her features from view. Her smile is as gentle as a lavender bloom. It is more than enough to set the drunken Duke on edge. He flushes with a ruddiness that has little to do with drink before clearing his throat and adding, "How does the Master fare, then?"

The young woman beams, motioning with her fingers. The movements are contained, but swift and sure; when she stops, the gathered throng glances to Earl, who has planted himself directly beside his fiancé and had been watching her gesticulate with pursed lips. He wears an expression as disapproving as hers is delighted, but he nonetheless translates:

"'Well, for not being in your company.'"

There is the sound of smothered laughter, titters and chuckles muffled behind palms. The Duke blushes a mottled shade of violet, and looks tempted to say something unkind—but the stare that the Earl shoots him carries a warning which, even inebriated, he realizes he should not test. He takes another deep pull of his liquor instead, grumbling as his peers pose queries of their own.

"I cannot say that I have ever heard speak of you, dear," says a lady of the grandmotherly breed, dripping in emeralds and seafoam green silks. She seems apologetic for her ignorance, but Janice merely waves her hands.

"'It is difficult to speak of one who has so little to say,'" Earl says on his intended's behalf, russet gaze flicking between her fingers and the faces of those in attendance. They all seem captivated by the oddity of this mute, enraptured by her wit and fascinated by her language. Like bugs before a lantern, they orbit and nod, their eyes wide with titillation. And innocence. He frowns faintly, only half of his attention afforded to his work as an interpreter, and so is only half-aware as he follows the next exchange.

"It is simply marvelous to see the young Earl finally settling down. He's such a rambunctious boy! However have you tamed such a wild spirit?"

"'Well, it is like breaking a bucking horse. Once you wear them out, they shall obey. Fortunately, I am ever so good at riding things that buck. I also have a rather sizable collection of collars and whips which—'"

Earl only becomes aware of the words tumbling from his mouth as the expressions on those gathered begin to morph. He blinks, reviews what he had just thoughtlessly mumbled, then flushes a shade of scarlet that puts even his locks to shame.

"_Janice!_" he rebukes in a hiss, his glower as dark as her beam is bright. A few within the throng twitter awkwardly as the Earl grabs his fiancée by the thin of her wrist and gives it a pointed yank. "May I speak to you over there for a moment, _please?_" he grinds through the grit of his teeth, jabbing towards the column that they had so recently been discovered hiding behind. Perhaps for reasons less chaste than had previously been assumed.

The young woman nods with a blasé blitheness, waving goodbye to the horde of flustered hens and preening cocks that have taken to collectively clucking their tongues. As the couple retreats, the gentries' heads begin to bob—pecking away at the crumbs of scandal left scattered in their wake. A few spare glances are afforded to Earl and his intended, but there is little else to be garnered from them, now. At least, not without the help of an interpreter.

Fortunately, there had been no one else written upon the guest list who might fit that description, so Earl is allowed to say whatever he wishes to his companion. He makes full use of that ability.

_Cecil, if you'll pardon my crassness, what the bloody hell?!_ he furiously signs, his cheeks almost literally aglow. The young woman—or, rather, the disguised man— that the Scout had dragged into the shadows near the hallway tilts his head, attempting a façade of guilelessness. It may have worked, too, had he not clearly been struggling to keep from laughing.

_I warned you prior, my dear Elf, _the one in the extravagant gown returns with ease, satin gloves gleaming as they catch in the light of waxen tapers. _Hunting this evening's prey shall require you to assist me in ways that you previously have not. Very different ways._

The Scoutmaster's countenance is so impressively flat that the staff could serve drinks from it. A meandering butler casts Earl a glance as he shuffles towards the kitchens, seemingly considering doing just that. _So posing as your fiancé while you gallivant in women's eveningwear isn't 'different' enough? _Earl grouses, his fingertips trembling beneath the sheathes of his own gloves. _I am also expected to endure your pointless teasing?_

_Pointless? _Cecil, pallid eyes having fallen temporarily upon those bodies filtering in and out of the hall, slides a steady stare back towards his companion, the sharp of his gaze dulling as it drags. A single brow arches beneath the swoop of an auburn wig as the camouflaged Marquis retorts, _I assure you, it is not pointless. And you are not expected to endure anything, child. If you wish to return to Night Vale, you are welcome to do so._

He extends a hand, palm up, and uses it to gesture towards the distant door. It is a universal invitation, one that adds splotches of sheepish magenta to Earl's blush.

_No, I— I want to help_, the Scoutmaster weakly vows, his brow furrowing in some fusion of desperation and exasperation. He interrupts his own assurances by raking a hand through his hair, then deflating with an inaudible sigh._ I don't mind, Mister Palmer. You know I don't. I just—I wish you would tell me what you're plotting. It worries me that you're keeping secrets._

_And you would worry more if I explained my plans to you_, Cecil guarantees. He signs with a gentleness that goes far in placating Earl's fears that he had irritated his companion, but does not do much to reassure him as to the safety of their current predicament. The Scoutmaster grimaces, looking tempted to protest further, but his unspoken concerns are batted away but articulate hands._ In any event,_ the Marquis continues, flippant, and literally speaking over the flexing of Earl's own fingers,_ you need not translate truthfully what I say. Not if that will help to ease your mind. My silly responses are mostly to service my own needs, as well as to entertain you at so dull a party._

Slender palms are fanned a second time. This time, though, it is not unspoken concerns that are batted away, but a sound of huffed amusement.

_If that is your idea of entertainment, then I think you are reading too many pennydreadfuls, Sir_, Earl drawls. Well, as much as one is able to drawl when using sign language. If nothing else, he has shrouded himself in an air of sarcasm so thick that it may as well have been a fog. Cecil blusters those clouds with an inaudible snort.

_You do not trust my mind to be corrupt enough to invent such scenarios on my own?_

_I think that— _the Scout begins, giving his eyes a mighty roll— but in so doing notices something waiting behind and beyond the teasing Marquis. Something unexpected, something unaccounted for. Something that does not simply give him pause: it freezes him.

"Get behind me," the redhead demands, with a brusqueness that leaves little room for debate.

There is always enough of a gap to tease, though.

_So forward! _Cecil comments, annoyingly unconcerned by whatever it is that has set his partner scowling. Or "whoever," he should say. His attuned ears have already picked up on the clunk of approaching footsteps—long strides, heavy with confidence, coming from the opposite end of the ballroom—, but they sound entirely human. Nothing they cannot handle. The Master twirls the ringlet that caps his laced locks, giving his lashes an endearing flutter as he goads, _Now who is reading too many pennydreadfuls?_

"That would still be you," Earl drones, sidestepping his companion's skirts to place himself in a position of protection. Still, he keeps his head angled down and back, allowing the length of his bangs to hide the better part of his mouth as he murmurs, "I mean it. That man over there. He's an—"

_Eternal Scout_, the Marquis finishes, pushed to his tiptoes and peering over the camber of the Earl's shoulder. His swathed fingers curl into the fabric of his companion's suit coat, providing him a roost and effectively silencing further smarminess. Chipped eyes glimmer like sapphire and opal as Cecil assesses the approaching gentleman, muscled and tousle haired and dressed neatly in the finery of the day. Perhaps coincidentally—or perhaps not—the stranger had selected a waistcoat and tie very similar in shade to Earl's own, if not a touch closer in hue to those of the garlands. There is a badge of a sort displayed upon his lapel, though it is not the kind that Cecil has observed his own Scout stitching with pride onto a ruby sash. It is a different kind of badge—more of a pin, really—that glitters with fragments of inlaid jewels.

Or, at least, they appear to be jewels. They glint like such stones, twinkling in starburst colors. But there is a strange emptiness to their shine— something fake about their luster. Something off-putting and unnatural. Something… manufactured?Cecil cannot help wondering if they had been processed or tumbled in some new manner, but lacking the words to express as much—or, frankly, the time to concern himself—, the Marquis makes no comment as to the pin's bizarreness.

Not that he would have commented, anyway, given his current disguise. Instead, he focuses on mirroring the new arrival's lopsided smile, mimicking his toothy delight as the man glides around the last of those loitering between himself and the couple.

"Earl? Is that really Earl Earl?" the man says, with a joviality that wiggles the tips of his slightly predominant ears. Cecil finds himself thinking, not ungraciously, of tiger's eye crystals as the new Scout stops before them, his gaze focused and bright. Those irises and such stones nearly share the same chatoyant sheen. The stranger cocks his head, the jagged tips of his brunette bangs slicing swiftly through the air as they shift against his pale brow. "Christ in a corset, it is you!" he croons after a moment of assessment, excitement tinging the deep of his voice as he offers a callused palm. "I'll be damned!"

"Undoubtedly, if you keep talking like that," Earl agrees with a small smirk, giving the proffered hand a brisk shake. "It has been a long time, Adam. But I am happy to see that time has been good to you."

Adam snorts, ruffling his own hair. The motion jars the hems of his unbuttoned sleeves, causing the material to slide; glimpses are granted of dark lines upon his forearm, swirling and archaic. "Nah," he dismisses, with an offhanded chuckle that is far more honest than anything else at this party. "Time has made me as much her bitch as everyone else. But I have been lucky enough to find others who show me some degree of respect. Now, if we want to talk about those who have _really_ been favored by fortune…"

The brunette's grin widens as his retort trails meaningfully off, and he glances sunnily towards the pretty face peeping around Earl's nape. "Hullo there, Chickadee," he greets, extending his hand as one might offer a perch. "You certainly are a quiet one—no squawking or parroting like the others in this gilded cage. Has the nasty Earl trained you as he has his hawk, or have you simply tired of singing?"

Cecil flickers his lashes, defiantly meeting this new acquaintance stare for stare. He may be birdlike in stature, but not in spirit; his smile floats like the Cheshire's above the curve of Earl's shoulder, wavering up and down as the Marquis balances on his bootcaps. The canary-eating curl of that grin catches Adam by surprise—he blinks, falling instinctively back. Startled, and openly so.

But then he is laughing, the sound hearty as he lowers his arm.

"What a strange bird!" the Scout compliments, his own smile gaining an impish edge. "What with all of that greenery on her head, I might fear you'd been tricked by a _yako_ had I not some modicum of faith in your skills, Lord Harlan."

He winks, a gesture that the Earl ignores with a well-timed glance to the Heavens. He does, however, notice the way his old companion has begun to lean further and further to the right, forgoing subtlety completely as he tries to catch a better look at the one behind Earl. Perhaps more formal introductions are in order. The Scoutmaster blows out his cheeks, dipping a touch to loosen his 'intended's' grip and then ducking out of 'her' grasp.

"Adam," Earl says as he slides to the left, gesticulating with enough grandeur to make a mockery of the situation, "may I introduce to you my fiancée, Lady Janice Palmer, niece of the Marquis of Night Vale. And Janice," he appends, with a twist of both body and tone as his attentions return to the one beside him, "this is my childhood friend Adam, who works in the service of the same charitable organization as I."

"A pleasure," Adam purrs, his amusement nearing tangibility as Cecil graces him with a demure curtsy. His ocher gaze is heavy, a weight upon the Marquis' chest; Cecil bears its burden with beauty and coyness, not needing to feign much interest at all as the Scout continues, "A pleasure, I am _very_ sure, to finally meet a Palmer! As one of dear Earl's closest cohorts, I hope that I might be the first to convey to you the _depths_ of his respect for your family. I am an orphan of poor breeding myself, so it never made much sense to me… But even in our youths, Earl here— much as his esteemed parents— regarded your uncle with such reverence. Why, his admiration permeated even his dreams! More than once I woke to hear him rustling about, murmuring of a Mister Palmer in his sleep. And in our _teenage_ years—"

"_Adam!_" Earl snaps, with a horror that has his voice cracking in ways that it hasn't since his aforementioned teenage years. 'Janice,' on the other hand, looks very much intrigued, the bow of her smile bending up and growing taut. There is some comfort in knowing that their current predicament prevents the Marquis from unleashing the verbal volley that he must wish to. Some comfort, but not enough. "I am quite certain that such a _refined lady_ as Janice would prefer _not_ to hear the saucy details of our youth."

"I think the refined lady disagrees," Adam retorts casually, nodding to the 'lady' in question. A gesture as prompting as the one that Cecil is now making is too universal to be reinterpreted; Earl glowers at the pair, fighting against the Scottish lilt that always threatens to mar his speech when he flusters.

"I would request the same respect you might show any other Scoutmaster, regardless of our history," he grumbles, his bitterness so potent that not even the tersest of tones can mask it. Upon seeing the start of genuine distress, the Marquis does not miss a beat: he relents, features draining of humor. Pouting his lip, Cecil circles his heart with the flat of his fist, the magenta silk of his gloves hissing softly over the burgundy of his breast. There is a peculiar intimacy in the way that he then gives the tip of his right ear a tug—like a name whispered in apology.

Earl notes this, and nods an acknowledgement. Adam watches the exchange with polite interest.

"I see," he then comments, eyes figuratively opened and quite literally round as the Scout gives 'Janice' another leisurely once-over. Comprehension dawns as brightly as the sun, long since set but still shining in moonbeams through the stained glass windows. "I suppose this would explain why the Chickadee did not wish to fill her daddles unnecessarily. The songbird cannot sing, can she? A shame! Or, arguably, a boon. She _is_ lovely to look at." The brunette clucks his tongue in a musing sort of way, reaching out as if to cup a rouged cheek, or replace an errant curl. "Either way, you'll have at least found some practical application of one of the skills we learned as bo—"

Faster fingers snap to a close, synched around an exposed wrist. Adam jerks, the reaction instinctive, but he can move no more than that fraction. He is trapped. The vice of Earl's grip is tight enough to bulge the veins that lurk beneath the back of his hand. Just beyond his empty grasp, the one in ribbons and flowers is regarding the man beneath dark lashes, pale as ivory and equally still. Unperturbed and staring.

Earl is staring, too: earthen gaze gaining the darkness of grave soil as he regards his stocky peer. The unconcerned vapidity of Adam's returning glance does not soften his glare.

"What are you doing here, Adam?" the ginger demands, releasing his hold only when the other makes a show of trying to step backwards. It is a motion he follows through with when allowed, though the arc of his brow makes it clear that he does not need to show Earl deference to obey him. His expression is borderline sardonic as he retorts:

"I have been hired on as help, of course."

The Scout punctuates his claim by giving his abused wrist a rub, speaking as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. And taking into account the institute to which they both belong, it likely should have been. Earl does not quite seem pacified, but cannot argue as Adam casually continues, "In truth, I'm a bit insulted that you would not make that connection straight away. I may never have been the pet of a particular Scoutmaster, but I survived childhood—I survived _training_—, which I think speaks highly enough of my skills. And I have managed to market those talents in a way that would make Master Daniel proud, God rest his soul," he tacks on, as if in afterthought. Neither Scout spares the dead more than a cursory nod of respect before Adam juts a hip and persists, "Last I heard, you've been making a living in much the same way as myself, despite already having a fortune to squander. So I thought it safe to assume that I would find you here for the same reasons. That is, unless I miscalculated, and you have already surrendered to the inevitable." He shrugs, not overly concerned either way—nor particularly troubled by the prick of Earl's piercing stare.

"Meaning what, precisely?"

Adam rolls his shoulders again, the weight of the demand making it that much easier to brush to the floor. Earl regards him with something like suspicion; Earl, in turn, is regarded with the same. And while the smile on the brunette's face remains pleasantly placid, the words which slip through his teeth are laced with something foul— his tone contaminated by the sort of cloying sweetness that hints at rot. "Why, simply that you are clearly much in love!" he cheers, his index tracing the invisible line of connection between the two. Back and forth, back and forth, and then—once, severely—up and down.

Earl winces. Adam scowls, lowering his hand and voice in kind. "And love is just no good, my friend."

"What is or isn't 'good' is not for you to decide, Sir," the Scoutmaster retorts, as quietly as shifting earth. Calm and still for now, but with the potential to be unequivocally destructive—a force which topples Towers as much as it is used to build them. "Nor are my personal affairs any business of yours."

"They are if they intrude on the business that we share. They are if they threaten your life, and the lives of those around you," Adam argues, though without sounding particularly argumentative. Or concerned. Or much of anything at all, really. The pin on his chest is dazzlingly cold as he shifts into a sturdier stance, stubbornly holding his ground on the issue. "I don't say this to upset you, Earl, or out of any childhood pettiness. It is a simple _fact_— even Master Daniel would've agreed! Daniel _especially _would have agreed. Love is dangerous. Destructive. It breaks hearts and minds. It makes a man vulnerable and soft, and this is no vocation for people of that ilk. Besides!" he adds, with the abrupt joviality of a sunray breaking storm clouds. It feels out of place and disconcertingly bright after so dark a conversation, but the warmth it exudes is earnest, despite everything. Adam turns that beam towards the silent Cecil, spotlighting the "woman" half-hidden behind the possessive Scoutmaster. "I can think of plenty of other things for a married man to do. Especially a man with so exquisite a bride. Why would you _want_ to waste your time on other matters?"

He winks, teasing. The Marquis blinks, impassive. Earl makes a muted noise of distaste as Adam muses, "Though frankly, I have been wondering the same of you, Chickadee. You must know what sort of man Earl Harlan is, yes?"

"Of course she does," the Scoutmaster immediately snaps, shifting a bit to further barricade his charge. "There are no secrets between us."

"Oh? _None_? None at _all_?" Adam gives an impressed whistle, pitched high to low; he, too, shuffles to the right, peering easily over the lift of lanky arms to regard "Janice." The utter cheek! Irritation urges Earl to move again, but despite the temptation he seems to be aware of how ridiculous that would look—three adults shambling in a slow crab-walk towards the wall— so instead wisely chooses to focus on glowering. Adam, on the other hand, focuses on Cecil, practically crooning with interest as he coos, "Is that so, sweetling? Well, then—knowing all that you do, _I _really must know… Whyever are you wasting your time on this loony?"

The query is posed with the flippancy of a joke, a setup and punchline combined. But even as Adam indulges in a derisive snort, his expression is one of frank curiosity. He cocks his head as he waits for an answer; the Marquis cocks his head as he waits for Adam to fall silent. The pause shared between them is pregnant.

And according to an eloquent motion of gloved hands, it is not the only thing.

Two sets of eyes grow wide. There is a wet spluttering, either made in surprise or protest. It is difficult to tell which. It is difficult to tell who makes it; neither man is quite sure, as neither is paying the other much attention. Instead, they are gawping at "Janice," torn between incredulity and exasperation as "she" folds "her" fingers over the flat of "her" belly.

Perhaps just one secret, then.

"You are?" Adam gasps a moment later, his features pinched with something like delight.

"You are," Earl echoes flatly, his glare finding a new home over his shoulder. Cecil turns enough to meet the brunt of that stare, his own almost disconcertingly serene. But when he smiles, its corners are definitely _pointed_. Oh, right. Undercover. Earl is not being convincing at all. He'd best try again.

"I mean. I knew that. Yes. Of course she is," the Scoutmaster says lamely, submissively accepting and even agreeing with the reprimanding nudge of a foot against the back of his shin. He is usually so much better at play-acting; he has a badge and everything. There is no reason that this should be so difficult. Honestly. Steadying himself with a breath, Earl swallows and finally manages a semi- credible, "We are… expecting."

It helps that this last bit, at least, isn't a lie. They are expecting _something_, for good or for ill. Wherever their quarry might happen to be, at present. Whatever it is.

As if cued, a wave of hired hands rushes through the nearby door, flooding the atrium. The pocket watch of a particularly punctual butler _tik-tik_s noisily over the bustle of the throng, marking each painful second of silence shared between the three.

"Well!" Adam finally cheers, clapping his hands and raising his voice just enough to be audible over the chinking of replaced cutlery. As a platter of crystalline flutes is carried past, he snags a glass from the edge of the tray and lifts it high in a toast. "To Earl and his intended then, and their plot to infest the world with soulless gingers! I never thought I'd see the day. Cheers," he singsongs, before tipping his head back and downing his champagne in three mighty mouthfuls.

Lacking drinks of their own—or any idea of how else to respond— Earl exchanges a second, slightly more awkward glance with an ambivalent Cecil and murmurs, "Cheers?"

Cecil shrugs. Sure, cheers. The flute is dropped atop another tray with a clatter, empty of all except air and condensation. Adam's grin has gained the sharpness of glass shards. He grinds those fragments together as he again regards the couple, saying, "If you will allow me— it seems that apologies are as much in order as congratulations! Perhaps he may have told you, Chickadee, but when we were younger men, this scallywag here would join us for any sort of hunt except the ones for tots."

The Scout snickers at his own turn of phrase, laughter tinged with fondness and eyes glazed with nostalgia. Probably nostalgia, anyway. As one, he and Earl begin to shake their heads— for entirely different reasons and at entirely different and amused, Adam clucks his tongue and rhapsodizes, "Never much seemed to care for baskets of oranges, ol' Earl. A couple nuts short of a fruitcake, I sometimes thought. Since, you know, no matter how often we begged him to come with us to the bordel—"

Adam blinks. Notes a pair of mismatched expressions—one murderous, one interested— and clears his throat, amending, "_Loooong_ story short, we always just figured that he preferred apples, or some such. Bananas," he finishes, helpfully tracing the outline of one in the air. The "lady" considers his invisible picture like a connoisseur of fine art; Earl considers Adam like something he might scrape off the bottom of his shoe.

"Adam. Stop talking."

"Aw, come now!" the Scout in question simpers, with a charismatic smile that Earl does not have the opportunity to enjoy, as he has decided to temporarily bury his face in the palm of his hand. "There's no need to get upset, my Lord! All I meant to say is how absolutely chuffed I am for you!"

"And yet, that is not at _all_ what you wound up saying," Earl drawls, lip curling. Fist flexing. Despite the bizarre amalgam of emotions flittering behind his eyes—vexation, fury, embarrassment— he speaks without a hint of passion, each word as heavy and dull as a boulder. "It hardly matters. Excuse us. You two are a terrible influence on one another, and I have a few harsh things to say to my fiancée that I would prefer no one with unusually large ears overheard."

The brunette stills. Bristles. Features gaining an uneven splatter of cerise spots, Adam's expression blackens, but his ears glow bright as embers. Their ruddiness becomes all the more obvious when the affronted Scout lurches—just a touch, like someone fighting the instinct to fight—and the drape of his chestnut locks shift against his temples, parting like stage curtains. This is not an act, and Earl does not wish to stick around to see whatever scene his insult might have heralded; he offers his old friend a curt bob of his head, then reaches out to grab a handful of ruffles. Cecil, understandably, looks a touch surprised by this particular method of corralling him, but does not resist as he is tugged out onto the floor by the cut of his lace.

There is a waltz ensuing. Women in gowns of daisy pale and forget-me-not blue revolve around their partners as petals do stems. Their layers flare outward in mimicry of blossoming buds: moonflowers and morning glories, twirling open then closed. Open then closed. A breeze rustles through, summoned by the swirl of so many bodies; ladies flutter hither and tither, free as dandelion puffs within that gust, while others choose to bloom where they are planted. The gold of gauzy streamers fills the spacious room with warmth— like a meadow on a late spring day— and whether those who thrive here are spinning or still, amicable or thorny, all are pleasantly rosy, dancing about like a variegated bouquet caught in a whirlwind. Earl drags his partner to the very center of this floral thicket, himself still as pink as a sweet pea. It affords for decent camouflage, as do the hands he prudently roots atop his partner's jutted hips.

_Well! _Cecil says as their bodies realign, his articulate fingers free to sign whatever he pleases within the space between their chests. That privacy is something he takes advantage of. _Adam, was it? He seemed pleasant. _Very _fond of you. We should have him for tea, sometime._

On impulse, satin gloves clench around an unseen corset's ribbing; the rigid angle of taut elbows keeps the pair close, but also judiciously apart. Beneath their waists, gathered fabrics of rich colors and fine textures are susurrating intimately, making wanton little sounds, but all else remains respectfully, professionally chaste. Not even their booted toes touch as the two are swept up by the orchestras' airs, though the Marquis imagines he can feel waves of crossness rolling from his glowering companion.

"Unless you are suggesting we Sweeny Todd him," Earl retorts through gritted teeth, "I am going to beg that we do not."

_Now, now_, Cecil placates, though some softness is lost within the bite of his smirk._ Be fair. I have spent a lifetime telling you stories. Is it not time I got to hear a few of my own?_

The Scoutmaster huffs. It is an undignified sound, but one which is easily swallowed by the crowds—much like a muted indigo gleam, and the discreet slap of a leather satchel against a thigh. The clatter of secreted weaponry is concealed by the clatter of patented heels as the pair weaves expertly through and around the spirals of other couples. Their motions are efficient, if a bit detached. They are not meant to take pleasure from this, after all— they are men. This is work. Earl is _not_ chuckling.

"My Lady, I will one-up Scheherazade and tell you one thousand and _two_ stories—of whatever genre is your preference—if it will prevent you from hearing the sordid and stupid tales of my youth. Particularly those as told by my old acquaintances."

_And I trust that with your silver tongue, those stories would be most entertaining indeed_, the "lady" is just as swift to assure, plait and pleats flouncing as he is lifted, and lowered, and whirled to the warble of the violins. Their toecaps touch, if briefly, as Cecil is returned nimbly to the ground. _But as one who is not unacquainted with the skill of lying, little Elf, I really must know— whatever has you so horrified?_

"I am not horrified!" Earl splutters, horrified.

_Oh, but you are_, the Marquis declares, the fractured blue and pale gray of his right eye glinting in a playful tease._ I cannot recall the last time I have seen you react so virulently—it certainly wasn't during a mission, despite the terrors that those may bring. Are you truly so mortified by the skeletons in your closet? Have you forgotten that I am one of them?_

Ethereal irises are not all that glint. Beyond the singing orchestra, Cecil catches sight of a prowling figure, his demeanor frosty and his badge shining like ice as he stalks the edges of the dance floor. He is not exactly conspicuous, but the Marquis is not alone in noticing him there; with purpose, Earl winds them in the opposite direction, closer to a lavish spread of cakes. This garners a reaction from the brunette, and not a particularly nuanced one. How odd. For while Cecil himself does not harbor any fondness for the sweet, his distaste manifests nowhere near as potently as Adam's. A shiver traces the length of the Marquis' spine as a glower digs into it, wedging between his vertebrae with the same sharpness as serving knives.

"I assure you, Miss, that I would never be mortified by you. Present attire notwithstanding."

A broad hand slips around the Marquis' back, sliding into place just above his bustle and just below his laces. It is a protective gesture: a buffer that may shield from the lance of further knives. But no. No, that is not it at all. The other Scout's stare is not full of _daggers_, but arrows, Cecil realizes, the knowledge slotting into place like leather shoes beside his boots.

_The only thing that should mortify you about tonight's garb is its price._

Yes, they are arrows— and very specific arrows, at that. Arrows that had, perhaps, long ago made a man draw taut with tension; that had been released only to miss their intended target. Arrows that have since rusted, mistreated due to their owner's own ignorance. Arrows that have become corrosive and dangerous.

Interesting.

Something within the Marquis dons a curdled leer, its endless spindled teeth scrabbling like the legs of a millipede in moist soil. That skittering length winds up and around the hard knot in his esophagus, constricting. Tightening. Aching, as if in imitation of the chest and loins below it.

_Fine_, Cecil acquiesces with an expressive motion, though he finds he must lean back a touch for it to be seen. His companion does the same, bracing himself for balance against the flush of their hips._ Perhaps I am not a skeleton, then, but a monster in that closet— one who lurks and listens to little boys as they play, as they sleep. One who threatens to consume their dreams. And so I remain a story regardless, the sort relayed to Hierophants when dawn breaks. That in mind, what embarrassment could there be, really, _the Marquis concludes with a flourish, _in introducing me to those others of my ilk? Why not open that wardrobe door a crack, and afford me some context for what I have overheard?_

He punctuates with a winning smile. Earl's lopsided grin does not promise him victory.

"Hm, that seems an unadvisable risk," the Scoutmaster retorts with wryness. "For that little boy grew up to be a monster hunter, I hear. A competent one, at that. It would be safer to stay in the dark."

They revolve past arched windows, beyond which such sheltering darkness lurks. They orbit with the other dancers,revolving like planets in a system without a sun. But though there is blackness, there is also brightness: thrown light rains upon them from a series of crystal chandeliers, glittering like star clusters and adding prismatic blemishes to their foppery. There is something magical and transient about those teardrop rainbows, something lovely and untouchable.

_He did indeed grow, didn't he?_

Cecil's expression softens, his ribbons dancing behind him like the tails of a comet. They make him think, unbidden, of the Heavens that small children implore to, of wishes and old hopes. Of prayers with responses so cryptic, one can hardly tell if they've been answered at all. There is no clear explanation. There is only a clear heartbeat—wistful and shared, thrumming through the press of mismatched chests. A strange wistfulness pools in the gaps that linger between them, scant though such space may be. The pale of his eyes has gained a jewel-bright sheen; their glimmer puts even the chandeliers to shame as he laments:

_Worse still, he grew so very fast! Like a weed, I think__._

The Earl chuckles lowly, one arm tight around a slim waist and one hand toying with an auburn braid. He is unsurprised to find that the woven rosebuds are real, though the color of the hair itself remains startling. He has not seen tresses in such a shade since he was seven. Earl may have been the one to grow, but he had not been the only one to change.

"Well, it stands to follow," he reasons, giving the plait a roguish tug. Silken, it slips like a rope through satin-sheathed fingers, verdant barbs snagging at what can be snagged. Poking at what shouldn't be poked. Catching between their upper bodies and digging into fine clothing… "Scout life is perfect for weeds. After all, it involves a great deal of sunlight. Tenacity. Wate—"

The Scoutmaster pauses. Frowns, his brow furrowing at the thought. No—not at the thought. At a realization. Water.

He leans back, staring shamelessly at something a chivalrous Earl wouldn't.

"I think your breasts are leaking."

The Marquis starts, gaping artlessly. There is an instant of bemusement. Then he, too, glances brazenly downward, both his feet and Earl's stuttering to a stop as the damage is assessed. In the shadow of another pillar, Cecil gingerly plucks a thorn from his bodice, watching with vague interest as the front of his chest darkens from maroon to claret. Oh dear.

_Goodness_, he comments, with a glibness that one might go so far as to call coy, _Do you always make the ladies so wet?_

Cecil simpers, discarding the spur. Earl splutters, choking as if on that leaking water. Appalled, the Scoutmaster grabs at his companion's elbow, dragging him further from respectable company. "_Ce_— ee here, Janice!" he hisses as they march, cheeks as red as the bloodshot eyes of the butler that they nearly smack into in their haste. Because yes, accidentally assaulting the hired help is perhaps the only remaining way to make them _less _discreet. "That is… that is _highly_ inappropriate!"

_As would be my wandering around, dripping puddles of holy water_, the Marquis points out—literally, gesturing towards the sanctified slickness he is dribbling in their wake. Oh good. How nice to know that they have succeeded in making this party hazardous for more than just a monster. Earl inwardly curses, berating himself for being so easy to fluster, then berating Cecil for being— well, for being Cecil.

"What do you propose, then?"

Graceless in their haste, the two skid into a distant, unoccupied corner of the ballroom. The Marquis braces himself from within that junction as Earl braces himself from without, both blocking his partner in and from view. He looms, nearly aglow. Cecil leers, the expression's corners as elegantly tapered as the tips of his expressive fingers._ Well, _he mutely coos, undulating thoughtfully against the wall,_ Since your prick is to blame—_

The palms pressed to the plaster beside Cecil stiffen. _"_Lady—"

—_I shall have you come—_

"Oh my _God_, 'Janice,' I am _begging_ you—"

—_and assist in cleaning up this sticky mess you've made of me. _

"I will do anything at all if it will make you _stop,_" Earl avows, with a sincerity that in no way belays the embarrassment threaded through his straining voice. He is nearly shaking now, though there is no way to tell if it is with mirth or tears or something else completely; his head is hung low, leaving Cecil to consider the broad of his shoulders.

_Well, then. Do you mind terribly if I irreparably damage your reputation as a gentleman?_

"You are the devil."

_And you are an adorable Fool_, the Marquis compliments, unfazed by the other's subdued groan of agony._ I must undress. Let us find a spare room so that you c—_

Wide hands close as quickly as a trap, albeit a very gentle one. An effective one. Golden-gloved palms shine as if truly made of metal as they cinch around fingers swathed in magenta silk, capturing them. Squeezing them. Those fingers have been rendered to a sudden still, wrangled silent within the snare. Earl holds to his patron like a prayer.

"Stop talking. You'll ruin the moment," he says, dull, sarcasm oozing as freely as a hidden pouch of holy water. Still, the sentiment is undeniably undermined by the stain of a blush that he cannot seem to get rid of. Clearing his throat, the Scoutmaster glances towards the nearest door, looking in all ways like a man seeking escape. Which he is. He very much is. "Right. According to my intel there are some spare guest suites on the second floor. The one at the far left end of the corridor will be unoccupied. We should be able to make use of it. Come with m— …let's go," Earl finishes with a cough, the tips of his ears blending perfectly with the vibrant ruby of his hair.

The fingers in his grip give a wriggle. Presumably in affirmation. He hears a chitter that is likely the jewels of Cecil's choker clattering about as the Marquis nods, but the Earl cannot bring himself to look and confirm this. Instead—with one of his hands still holding tightly to the other's—he employs an effortless about-face, leading his companion swiftly through a labyrinth of loitering nobility.

They abscond beneath archways. They duck past Dukes, dip around Dames. They circumvent a drunken Viscount who seems intent on winning the romantic favor of a statue displayed within an alcove. Marquises and Earls from distant provinces break up the monotony of the marble and gilt décor with their flamboyant fashions, their gems and their gossip, and at any other time they might prove themselves useful as possible associates for future endeavors. However, in their current rush, a certain Marquis and a specific Earl find that those guests' faces do little more than blur, much like the details of this house. There will be no wandering of this manor's passageways in the safety of the Scout's mind; his focus is as erratic as the pulse beneath his wrist, so fleeting that he's barely certain where he's going now. But stairs—

Stairs. He knows they need those.

A conglomeration of Barons congest the lavish gallery, their expressions warped in ways as creative as the banisters that they block. They mutter dishonor into their drinks as the Earl of Harlan and his intended sweep swiftly past them, taking the shallow steps two at a time. Their heels click on the landing; knives click against pearl buttons beneath the bind of the Scout's vest; a lock clicks to an open as it is cleverly picked, and the door which it had ineffectually been ascribed to clicks to a close as the pair slips inside. As Cecil slips away, hand sliding from Earl's as he wades deeper into the shadows.

And the room is deeply shadowed. The tapers atop the mahogany nightstand are not lit, and neither man has any plans to light them. It would be foolish to draw such attention to themselves— to leave unnecessary evidence as to their having been here. Moreover, it would be a waste, for despite the late hour and the swirling gloom, the room is not _dark_. It is, in fact, almost unnervingly _bright_. Its carpets shimmer like silver in the moonlight that pours through the windowed doors of the balcony, the twining frame of its latticework cutting those hoary shafts into haloing rays and distended silhouettes. Ethereal coronas of cobalt serve to outline a velveteen chaise, a four-poster bed, and a baroque vanity, the latter's edges festooned in carved patterns of justicias. Nova bursts of brilliance streak across the surface of its dusty mirror, despite the milky way haze it has gained from disuse. Earl is quick to catch those falling stars, draping his suit coat over the vanity's looking glass. He does this out of consideration. He does this because Cecil hates mirrors.

He does this so he does not have to look at the bed.

_Isn't it a bit late to be embarrassed? We are having a baby together, after all. _

And of course the Marquis notices this, so of course that's exactly where the Marquis wanders. Prances, really. Grabbing one of the four wooden shafts, Cecil extends his elbows and braces himself like one awaiting a matron's help to disrobe. Which, thinking on it, is exactly what he's doing. Earl would glance to God for help if he believed in such an entity.

"Yes, _about _that," he sighs instead, tightening his gloves as he trudges into place behind Cecil. Much as he had earlier that day, the Scoutmaster makes quick work of the gown's complex backing; however intricate the laces, they are no match for his Knots Badge. "I feel like that _may_ have been a detail worth sharing when we were devising our disguises."

He plucks the final buttons on Cecil's high necked collar. He gives a velvet cord one last pull. He steps away— the dress falls like a curtain beneath the spotlight of the moon, leaving the Marquis poised in its fairy ring of frills and flowers. The satin blooms catch against the ivory ruffles of his petticoat, clinging fondly; they susurrate like autumn grasses as the "lady" steps from the magenta hoop of discarded fabric, now dressed more in airs than clothing. The auburn braid hangs heavily against his shoulder; the argent stitching of his corset shimmers like spider threads as the material cleaves to his thin waist. And as Cecil retrieves two pouches of holy water from a pocket sewn into the front of his slip, Earl remembers that part of the reason he does not believe in Heaven or divinity is because of this man— this man who can smile as sweetly as an angel, only to speak with the tongue of a devil.

Or the hands, as the case may be.

_I simply couldn't resist surprising my fiancée_, Cecil seems to sing-song, placing both the ruptured pouch and the whole one beside the nightstand's candelabra. He then seats himself primly on the edge of the mattress, ankles crossed and lashes fluttering._ Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?_

"I am hoping we manage to kill the monster we seek before I wind up killing you," Earl retorts, markedly unimpressed by his patron's antics. The Marquis looks like he would laugh were he allowed. But no—even here and alone, they are undercover; any semblance of a voice would ruin the image that he has so painstakingly crafted. That would never do. Instead, Mister Palmer tugs the curls of his braid and bites at the inside of his lip, parodying deep consideration as he carefully signs:

_If that is your desire, there may be something you can do to speed this process along._

Earl cocks an eyebrow, prompting. "Yes?"

_Come sit beside me._

For a single heartbeat, the moonlight seems abnormally loud. Its beams gush through the panes of the window like water would from a dam, flooding this foreign bedroom with its radiance. Cecil is radiant, too— his curves softened by a paleness shared with that streaming light. It lends to him an aura. An aureole, otherworldly and tinted with indigo. He touches the bedspread with the tips of his fingers, his gloves almost agonizingly vibrant against the pallor of sheets and skin. Bright. The color blood. And oh—that is not the sound of moonlight at all, is it, but instead the rushing of blood in Earl's ears, his cheeks, as the Marquis hoods his increasingly hoary eyes.

"I beg your pardon?" the Scout demands, proud of how level his reply remains despite feeling as though the world were tilting. It is likely not tilting. Cecil is, though. Bringing a knee up to lace beneath his thigh, the Marquis twists to lounge on the side of his hip. He braces his palms, tipping closer; the ingenuous motion is the key that undoes the locks of his plait. Its tie had been abandoned amidst earlier toying; its woven vines have branched, thorny and threaded. The tresses unfurl with the delicate scent of roses, coils of ruddy russet teasing the eiderdown as much as Cecil teases his partner.

_Oh? Do you not wish to sit with me?_

"No, it is not that," Earl reassures, perhaps half an instant too quickly. He clears his throat to compensate for that slip, then adds with practiced deliberation, "It is merely… Well. To be frank, Miss Palmer, after all of the indignities I have suffered today, I cannot but suspect that this request, too, is some sort of thinly veiled entendre designed to take years off my life."

_I assure you, I have taken off all that I plan to tonight._

"You are not helping your case."

_No, perhaps not, _Cecil concedes, with another grin that hints at poorly veiled mirth. _However, I _am_ working towards the end of this case. You may not believe me, but I am. And I am perfectly content to continue things in this fashion, Salamander, but if your preference is for a faster return to Night Vale…_

He pats the mattress again, rubbing smooth the space beside him in blatant invitation. His features are as open as his animated arms, his smile spread wide in welcome… But soon it flags, along with his gesticulating limbs. Blossoming humor wilts, and it its place other things sprout. Other things rise. Curious and contemplative, Cecil pushes himself to a silent stand: frills and fingers fluttering like the contours of an apparition. He moves as such a specter would, too; agile, flowing. As he nears, his petticoats ripple like water or wheat or springtime clouds, and Earl recalls with a deep and sudden poignancy the airy glide of yesteryear: the gait of a man whose every movement commanded supernatural grace, even as his heels seemed to drag in resistance.

Much has changed since then. Cecil has changed. And in his pace there is less drag, now— less resistance, more gravitation. He drifts towards the Scout as if pulled by binding threads. By loosened threads. The Marquis steps over the heap of his gown, and the Scout thinks of other discarded guises, untied by his fingers and left in pieces on the floor. Downcast eyes fall against a curtained hip, and Earl wonders how many more layers might safely crumble before…

The very tip of a swathed finger touches the Earl's chin, tilting it upwards. Keeping in poised. Considering. Gentle. With a tenderness that hints at candid affection, that same finger traces the strong swoop of the Scout's jawline, following it all the way to his temple. It lingers there for an instant... Then its back brushes fondly down the sharp of Earl's freckled cheek, pulled away when Cecil requires it for other things.

_There really is no need to be so flustered, little Elf_, the Marquis signs, assuming a professionalism that this evening's interactions have very much lacked, up to this point. Though he remains physically close, a well-known and sincerely despised distance threatens to overtake the two, should that be perceived as the other's desire. And it isn't his desire, it _isn't_, but—_ I know I look a tart, but beneath this costume it is only me. _

"I know _that_," the Scout ripostes, swift and low. Swift and low, like the cut of his gaze—shirking Cecil's in favor of some yonder darkness. In the bleak of the room, he blazes like a flame, even without the swath of his scarlet cloak. Even without air to breathe. He clears the hitch from his throat, his flush nearly bright enough to reflect in his patron's eyes as he adds, "I _know_. That's— well. That's rather the…"

The point? The problem? The Scoutmaster blusters a sigh, shaking his head. Whether he does this to dismiss his own line of thought or to gently reject Cecil's unvoiced concerns is not clear. It does not matter. It is not the point right now, and they have other problems to deal with.

Other problems that they can, theoretically, deal with more quickly should he choose to trust and obey.

"How would you have me?" Earl asks into the hush, with a steadiness that does not quite reach the ends of his fingers. He clenches them against his side as he glances back towards the Marquis, who is looking at him as if through a mask. And not merely due to a layer of makeup, the Scout thinks. Rather, because there is something carved and statuesque about the look on his face, yet something distinctly _alive _behind the sheen of his irises. Hidden beneath the sweep of his bangs, Cecil's left eye shines like a pond in the spring—the blue of crusted ice splintered to reveal a swirling mercury void lurking below. Within his right, now nearly a solid shade of silver, something is _pushing_; the few remaining shards and wedges of sapphire glint like a broken window as they are shifted. As the two men shift, one tugging the other by the buttons of his waistcoat to the edge of the bed.

_Lie here, if you would_, Cecil instructs, giving Earl's chest an encouraging little shove as the backs of toned legs connect with the mattress. At the feel of applied pressure, the Scout instinctively sits; even still, his torso remains upright and attentive. Eager, but tense. With his ears pricked and his expression guileless, the redhead looks nearly like a dog: raptly awaiting instructions that he has already been given. The innocence of it all has the Marquis smiling again, as any might upon realizing that they hold something precious in their hand. Beneath their hand. It takes a second gentle nudge to send the Scoutmaster into a sprawl, uncouth and abnormally graceless.

_There we are. Lie here, dearest, and do not move. Can you do that for me?_

Earl grunts, his tresses mussed as he adjusts himself—just once—atop the soft of the eiderdown. His arms are spread wide, crucified by the shadows of the window panes; the muscles and tendons corded through his body strain as he resists the urge the sit up again. It is an odd feeling, lying like this. Even in sleep he does not leave himself so prone. "A lifetime of training in the most abstract and deadly of arts so as to earn the right to fight beside you," the Scout comments dryly, his gaze almost accusatory as he stares up at the waiflike figure poised between the spread of his knees, "and all you would have me do tonight is lie with you in bed. My role in this mission's performance could have been played by a log."

Cecil tips his head this way and that, considering something that does not appear to be Earl's commentary. Logistics, perhaps? Nonetheless, he flippantly rebukes:

_If you wish for me to cease teasing you with entendres_, _I would ask you to stop setting me up so beautifully._ _Although, _he adds, with a sort of musing thoughtfulness that in no way belays the meditative manner in which he is slipping out of his boots,_ the teasing helps._

"Of course it does." The sarcasm is nearly palpable. Other things are nearly palpable, too, like the mouthful of oxygen that clogs in Earl's throat as he watches Cecil discard his shoes, still not wholly certain what to expect next. The heels of his own soles grind against the carpet as he strives to remain motionless. It is more difficult than he'd given the task credit for,what with the way the Marquis is shuffling about between his thighs. "Is this… helping?"

He cannot imagine how. He frankly feels ridiculous. But Cecil gives his upper leg a bolstering pat, cheerful and reassuring.

_It will in a moment_, Mister Palmer says right after, with a joviality that catches at his lip as the material of Earl's trousers catch at his skirts. The clothing susurrates, soft. They whisper what Cecil cannot. Beneath the drape of those articulate ruffles, the Marquis' own knees connect with the side of the bed. The mattress shivers; Earl shudders. Cecil jostles, grinning, as his body cants imperceptibly forward and he signs,_ But first I thought it prudent to warn you that this may hurt. Not you,_ he swiftly swears, reacting to a concern that had not even occurred to Earl._ No, it shan't hurt you. But it may hurt me. However, even if it does, you _must _keep still. You must _not move _until the monster arrives. Then, your job will be to decapitate it. Do you understand? _ the Marquis inquires, the question posed with one hand as the other grants him balance. The bed sags beneath the weight of his palm—of his leg—as Cecil gingerly clambers atop of it.

Atop of Earl.

"My lo— My lady, what are you…?" the Scoutmaster breathes, not totally convinced that he can be heard over the groan of the mattress, the pound of his heart. If he had not been still before, he is certainly rendered so now: Earl lies, rigidified, as the Marquis crawls delicately up the splay of his body, petticoats rumpling and auburn locks swaying. His legs are spread wide; his arms are lithe. Luring. Long and lucent, those limbs fall against the coverlets like beams of moonlight, so soft and pale as to be intangible. But they are tangible. They are _very_ tangible, and ensnaring, and Earl is quick to find himself confined beneath their weight. The Marquis rears back, pleats pooling, as he poises primly within the cradle of his companion's pelvis.

And then he looms, earlier merriment abandoned along with other assumed façades.

_Do you understand, Earl?_

"I…" The Scout wishes he could nod. Nodding would be easier than speaking. Than having to find what remains of his voice, lost somewhere within the tight of his throat. But to nod would be to move, and he has made a vow. He would never break a vow. "…yes, mistress."

_Good child._

The endearment falls from his fingertips fondly, silken as the froth of frilled fabrics that fills the few remaining gaps between them. Fluid as water, Cecil flows forward—a calculated drag of flounces and pelvis— and paws at Earl's breast as the sea would the shore. Reaches, in a series of lethargic rolls, for an arm that tension has pinned to the bed. There is a hiss, not unlike the sound of sand being dragged under the surf; the Marquis can feel it bubble up beneath the hand that he has braced against the Earl's stomach. Taut muscles ripple like water disturbed. The Scoutmaster looks disturbed—not so much by the man in his lap, but by the fact that he cannot calm his body's reactions to it.

"H-hngh…"

The gasp is low, involuntary. It stutters in a chest that rises and falls in mimicry of an escalating tide. Within those same dark confines, Earl can feel his heart ache and swell, and he tries very hard not to allow any other anatomy to mirror that response. He tries very hard to drown. He tries very hard not to whimper again—but the sound is wrenched from his throat by a pointed surge forward, Cecil's face set in determination as his back inverts into an arch.

That motion travels. Its undercurrent undulates through loosened curls, earlier gathered to cascade in a single, shining wave over the bare of the Marquis' shoulder. Their dragging tips tease, twirling around buttons; their flowers rustle, petals pealing back in spirals like shells or stars or lady's skirts. Like thoughts behind unreadable eyes, blue and gray and shining.

Earl's own eyes are glassy, his pale lashes fluttering like the hand that brushes against his elbow. His inner arm. With a clench of his thighs and a lift of his hips, Cecil can reach the base of the Scoutmaster's wrist, where veins and tendons push to break free of freckled fresh. A swathed ring finger traces where that delicate joint folds, the carved lines exposed beneath the hem of a sleeve and the start of golden gloves.

That glove is of particular interest. Earl watches, features ruddy as much as blooming roses, as the Marquis gingerly scoops the Scout's hand up into his own, lifting it carefully to his breast. For a moment, Cecil regards the appendage with a detached and almost technical interest, plucking vaguely at the husk of foppery. He seems to be considering something. And though the gesture is not completely mechanical, is not without some affection, that affection is… distant. Oddly stifled, like butterflies in a jar. Something flitters behind the whites of eyes and teeth, and Cecil pauses in his picking to indulge in a deep, steadying breath.

Then—in a sudden flurry— the glove is tossed away, shucked and streaking across the room like the aurulent tail of a meteor.

"Lord above…"

Earl does not see where the scrap lands. He hardly notices that it's gone. The only thing that registers within the white noise of his brain is that his hand—his _skin_—has been pressed to something chilled. Something smooth. Something dead or dying: its life all but smothered, yet still subject to those final vestiges of motion. To a flutter like fragile wings, unfelt as they beat against thick glass.

His cheek. The Scoutmaster's hand has been lifted to caress Cecil's cheek. And Cecil, eyes closed, expression lax, nestles like a lover against the supple ridges and hardened calluses of Earl's bare palm. Shallow breaths graze over the curve of his wrist, measured and slow and unceasing. They tumble over that ledge like the ghosts who haunt cliffs. And, like a ghost, he finds himself filled him with poignancy and redolent sensations. They send shivers down the length of Earl's arm, the ice of the Marquis' touch filling his own veins in turn.

The hand slips, and he shudders again, albeit for reasons that have little to do with the cold.

"Mist— Mistress, you're… Have you…?" Earl rasps, his expression pinched and pink as dog rose as his hand is pulled with purpose down the slope of a slender neck. The caress is guided, fingers fanned and thumb spread wide; he is wrapped with care around Cecil's throat, nails grinding into the base of his skull. Hips grinding into blanketed heat. The Marquis quivers, lashes and lips trembling as his head falls back, his hands push in. He urges Earl's to do the same with more strength than the latter would think comfortable— with more strength than he is comfortable using. It almost feels like…

"Never."

Cecil relents. He exhales. The permeating perfume of flowers smells momentarily sweeter as they choke it down in pants and heady huffs. A swallow presses the Marquis' throat further into his companion's hold, loose though it has become. A noose into a necklace, a necklace into nothing. He allows the clammy palm to sag, to drag downward and over the straining bones of his collar. Between the sultry damp of his strong fingers and the frosty bite of a marble veneer, Earl is left frozen in more ways than one; he imagines he can feel a spiderwebbing hoar form atop those places that they touch, clinging like pollen and seeking to trap his hands wherever they lay.

They lay atop a heart. He feels very trapped indeed. What lurks beneath his palm feels trapped, too: pounding against Cecil's slatted ribs like a series of rocks being thrown. Erratic, but strong— almost startlingly so. It is not the only thing that startles.

"Miss, I— _Jesus!_"

It happens in an instant. It happens in a series of changes so small, so slight, that the gloom may have masked it at all, had it not been for a sudden pulse of radiance. A gradient glow, rising from the Marquis' skin with such delicacy as to be confused with moonlight. But no—no, it is _stronger _than that. The eerie aura ripples outward as if from the drop of a stone in deep water, pulsing from blackness to vibrancy. It blurs the edges of Cecil's outline, twisting the start of a contented smile into an agonized grimace.

"—_!_"

Earl's hand is dropped like something that burns, thrust away with a look of unconcealed panic. Upon the Scout's hips, Cecil convulses, thrashes— ripping frantically against the skin that the other had touched. A flush the same pale as his decorative rose quartz had formed in the wake of callused fingers, leaving a trail of lingering marks; the Marquis holds to those lines as if they are faults, fingers vice-tight as he quakes and writhes. His shoulders hunch, his eyes jam tight. His jaw clenches so tightly that Earl can hear the bones within it strain, yet Cecil refuses to give voice to the retches that heave up from his core. He refuses to open his mouth.

He refuses to leave the Scoutmaster's lap. The clamp of his thighs tightens. He grasps a fistful of the other's waistcoat. He braces himself, even as he crumples, and Earl can do nothing but remain as he is, knowing that any movement made to dislodge the Marquis might cause him more distress. But then, Earl is not sure that _he _can handle any more distress.

"_Good God,_ _Cecil_—!" he hisses, soft and stricken— with more despair and desperateness than volume. He recognizes the slip a moment after the name falls, but the Scout no longer cares; if exposed disguises and a botched mission are what it takes to rouse the Master of Night Vale to reason, then so be it. "Sir, you need to— this is dangerous! Don't risk yourself so recklessly …! _Fuck!_ You're so— _uncovered_, Lord, are you all right?! What are you even doing?!" he demands, the words jumbled and strained. Pained, tinged by an emotion that is just shy of fury. Just shy of something like fury. The ache of that something throbs in his voice, and in his chest, and in other unsavory places as he watches his companion curl up like a wilted bloom, petticoat splayed in petal patterns and head heavy against the junction of Earl's shoulder.

Cecil shuffles himself closer, flopping weakly. His breath wafts— noisy but shallow, abraded but steady—into the air above them, rising as he lifts unsteady hands. Even his fingers are coated in a sheen of crystalized sweat, the damp having stained his gloves to darkness.

_I am cultivating a stone_, the Marquis signs into the night, compensating weakness with careful precision. Gray-blue eyes stare wearily up at the ceiling, closing as his roses overexpose themselves. _A moonstone. I am using its energies to trick the beast that we seek. I had hoped that by making fools of ourselves, we would draw enough attention that I'd need not make the jewel especially powerful, but… that has not been the case. To attract this creature and end its reign, I must make the jewel stronger._

Earl considers this. He considers the scene that they'd made in the ballroom, the scandalous harassment, and whatever theyhad just done, or hadn't done, in this foreign bed. He considers the body that has nuzzled itself into the crook of his arm, and how he cannot seem to decide if he wants to pull the man closer or force him away. He is not sure which would hurt more. Of course, it hardly matters, for the Scout had made a promise; he does not— cannot— do either of those things. He can only lie there, pinned by the weight of revelation and truth and errant garlands and honeyed locks and ask, "…how, exactly, are you doing that?"

_The same way I cultivate any stone, _Cecil returns bluntly. Vaguely. He acts as if that is all that needs to be said to make everything clear, and yes— in a way, Earl thinks he understands. They have been in each other's acquaintance for nearly two decades, now; even if some of those years had been spent apart, he would like to believe that he has worked beside Mister Palmer long enough to have garnered some basic understanding of his powers. Of his curse. Of the risk that touching particular people exposes him to, and the motives for ostracizing himself in a jewelry box house. The circumstances that lead to spit stones after certain exorcisms. The reasons behind the gems that his eyes are fast becoming. They are all connected: a woven web of causes and effects that lace together like the scar on the jut of Cecil's hip, hidden but unforgotten.

Earl has never forgotten. He digs his nails into the coverlets, and disputes the claims that this would not hurt him. Because it _does_, it—

_I think that was enough. _

The Marquis moves again, twisting from his back to his stomach. His tresses slink, his skirts wrinkle; his eyes glitter with the softness of fireflies amongst tall grasses as he rests his chin upon the Scout's chest, a waxing moon smile rising over the crest of his ribs. When a similar smile is not immediately returned of Earl's own volition, Cecil prods a gloved finger against the Scout's frowning mouth, helpfully reminding his companion what sort of shape that mouth should be taking. They are nearly finished, after all. This is a good thing. When his companion remains stubbornly somber, Cecil pushes at his pursed lips, mischievous. Grins more broadly, as if in demonstration. And Earl, despite himself—despite the situation, and his irritation, and his confusion, and his utter lack of certainty about anything—despite all of that, he feels himself start to smile in return, because he is helpless to do anything else when granted such a rare and candid glimpse of the man beneath the mask of stone.

He smiles, and Cecil smiles—and swathed hands continue their playful nudging, skittering over ticklish sides and sensitive muscles. Earl is horrified to hear a soft _meep_ escape him as he tries to scramble from the sensation, relinquished from his pledge by an encouraging jerk at his waistcoat. A dress flairs; legs flail. The Scoutmaster attempts to roll artlessly away, but the knots of clinging fingers are tight enough to bring the Marquis along for the ride. Cecil braces himself against Earl, just as Earl braces himself against the bed—elbows splayed, knees spread, back arched. Mister Palmer arches too, squirming. Settling. Still beaming.

There is nothing between their bodies but the heat of breathy giggles. Their only contact is through clothing, Cecil's fists tight around brass buttons and silk. The only sound is the groan of the mattress, its frame bumping into the wall as Earl lifts a brow a teases, "And yet you refuse to let me go…? You said that was enough."

_It was_, the Marquis agrees, nonchalant as you please. He brushes a curtain of unruly scarlet bangs behind a speckled ear, considers, and then delicately adds,_ For the gem. _

Knees squeeze against the curve of the Earl's hips. They are spread wide, heels to thighs, with only thin sheets of fabric separating skin from skin. Pleats bunch like ivory carnations, their color complimented by the fallen leaves that litter the bedspread. There is no stopping the intimate warmth that seeps down the Scout's upper legs—that pools within his core and fills his stomach with honey. His knees shiver like springy greens in the sun. They move again, bed and bones creaking, in motions too slight to disturb the heavy air. The pervasive perfume of roses has become nearly intoxicating—cloying and thick as nectar on the back of his tongue, and the Earl finds it difficult to swallow.

Perhaps that is why he cannot stop himself from speaking.

"Cecil, I— Sir." The Scoutmaster hesitates, reaching up to catch a hand that is idly tracing constellations out of his freckles. After a beat of hesitation, he brings that covered palm to his lips and stamps a dry kiss to the base of its wrist. It is an unprompted gesture, tentatively made… But worth the risk, Earl selfishly thinks, to feel the way that the Marquis' fingers quiver. How his pulse suddenly quickens. It bolsters him enough to whisper, "My Lord, if things were different— That is, you and I. What_ are_ w—?"

There is a pounding. For half an instant, Earl does not recognize it as anything more than their heartbeats, as it is perfectly matched to that pace. But there it is again—brisk, yet tentative. It shatters the dreamlike haze between the two as swiftly as any wakeup call; shrouds of secrets clear from wanting eyes like curtains being parted, and in an instant 'Cecil' has once again vanished behind the mask of the Master of Night Vale. His smile is vapidly pleasant as he slants a stare towards the door, his tresses tangled in brambles and roots over both features and pillows. He gathers the flaxen strands like wheat, roses dangling weakly from their thorns, as he begins to sit up—proximity urging Earl to rear instinctively back.

The knocking continues, persistent. Fully upright, the Marquis rubs mindlessly at the taut of his belly, lost in whatever thoughts he often is. Then, casually, he flicks his glance back towards his companion and signs: _Answer that, if you would._

Earl does not waste the time to answer—he only reacts. With the agile fleetness of a fairytale knight, the Scout slips from the four-poster and treads swiftly to the entry, smoothing his foppery as he goes. His hands hesitate for half an instant longer on those places where weaponry hides, confirming their weight and placement. There is a sort of ritual in the gesture, an unconscious prayer; the same is made when the Scoutmaster grasps a brass doorknob and pulls.

"Yes?"

Light pulses through, spilling in silent streams. Momentarily blinded, Earl squints at the haloed outline of the one who had disturbed them. A man— his dark skin and dark hair melding ominously with his dark suit and the dark shadows. Not just a man, then— a butler. He stands, timid and tired looking, with recognizably bloodshot eyes.

"Uh—um, I beg your p-pardon, my good Sir, but… But guests are not allowed in th—… That is, y-you and the lady should not be…"

It is not the only thing that Earl recognizes as he stares into that glassy gaze. A chill skitters up the curve of his spine as his mind translates details into clues and clues into answers. Something clicks in the back of his skull, a sound not dissimilar to the _tic _of the butler's nervous tongue. The Scout's expression folds into something accusatory; they are close enough together beneath the jamb of the door that the Earl can clearly see the contours of that expression reflected in the whites of the creature's eyes.

But inverted.

"_Aswang_," the Scoutmaster breathes, distinguishing the beast from the guise that it wears. And it, too, distinguishes Earl: noting with a frown what clever digits are reaching for beneath the snug of a vest. Teeth chitter as it gasps, panicked and cocking its head. Eyes widen, then narrow. Its waxen expression curdles, tallow-soft with lumps. Then its lips are curling back— and back—and back and back and _back_, more and more, until its flesh is physically _peeling:_ skin snapping into sinewy strips along the yawning maw of its jaw. The monster's hinging grin and skull elongate, its contours pinched as sharp as glistening fangs. Greased black hair prickles into wolf-coarse tufts, sprouting from gnarled knuckles and bowed knees through the tears of a ripping uniform. The slits of its irises are the same wet crimson as its ribboning tongue, glimpsed through the taffy-pull gaps in the thinned skin cradling a distended gullet.

That tongue—no, that _proboscis_—flickers. So does the humanoid's outline. Without moving, the aswang is suddenly nose to nose with the Scout, its proboscis coiling into a tight spiral. Pulsing. Close as they are, Earl can see how its other muscles are coiled equally tight. How _everything_ is pulsing_._ But _he_ is the one left spiraling— for one moment the beast is there. The next, it is not.

"Mistress…!"

Silent. Swift. Shape-shifters. Years of training and study are condensed into a series of bullet-point statistic as the Scoutmaster swings himself around, slamming shut the heavy door to trap the beast—to trap them all— within. The gloom that had once felt so protective has now become another adversary; Earl's mind and body reel as he tries to reorientate within it, cursing himself for not having lit a single candle. He should have lit at least _one. _Flames—flames kill aswangs. As does a pious faith in God, the Scout has heard, but he has as much of that as he has fire. Guns are too conspicuous, salt will only work after a wound has been inflicted, and the remaining pouch of holy water is too far from his reach to even be considered a viable option. But what options _does_ he have? What does he yet possess? Earl squints through the midnight mist, reminding himself of his knives and wit, his drive and—

Cecil. Cecil is staring at him, watching him, propped up on his palms and curled upon his side, unmoving. No— not unmoving. He is poised. Waiting. Expectant.

_Orders_. Earl had been given orders.

_Decapitate it. _

"The staff at this party is incredibly rude," the Scoutmaster says into the hush, mocking and crouched low. He prowls to the left, surveying each ichor-streak stain of blackness in the hopes that he will find the shade made by the monster. The slender shadows cast by one of the four-posters wavers, hissing a chattering series of cicada clicks; Earl's knife sings through the air, wedging deep into the post and silencing the _tik_ of what watches.

For an instant. Then the sound emanates jeeringly from the furthest corner of the room— from a gap beside the nightstand— from the seat before the vanity, a suit coat flung onto the floor by an unseen hand. Volleys of daggers pierce the night within the same moments as those strident clacks, but it does not matter; the blades lodge uselessly in the junction of the corner—in the side of the nightstand— upon the flat of the seat as the creature runs in taunting circles. The stagnant air is whipped into a whirlwind as Earl whisks back and fore, the glint of moonlight off of scattered knives an eye-catching distraction. They wink like stars as he spins, dizzying him. But perhaps…

Perhaps they can ground him, as well.

"Where did you go, Sir Butler…? I have need of your services," the redhead coos, glaring at the wonderland path of shimmering weapons. Up the walls and down, this way and that… Their surfaces shine, silver-smooth and reflective. Like mirrors. Like dozens of strategically placed mirrors, and yes—_there._ There is an image, however briefly captured, of ebony wisps. They streak over the exposed blade of the knife that sticks from the side of the wardrobe, only to appearing a fraction of a second later on the dagger angled out of the window frame. They darken the edge of those weapons jammed into the floor, lopsided as archaic gravestones. They slither about the glassy labyrinth, serpentine, bouncing jaggedly, shrieking—

Then Earl is shrieking, because he can see where it is headed, and cannot react fast enough.

"My Lady_, mov—!_"

Too late.

_THWAK__._

The creature's tubed tongue had squealed as it unfurled, squelching against itself and scraping at self-made squalls. Thrusting. _Piercing. _With the accuracy of an Eternal Scout blade and three times its speed, that proboscis had sliced through the gloom, thin as a rapier and just as strong. Smooth and deadly, the segmented organ glistens in a sheath of viscid saliva, oily residue melting down its length in audible _glops_. The Scout recognizes the thick liquid as lubricant—something paired with gravity to allow the creature deeper access to its prey. And it is using gravity, as well: hoisting its quarry, jostling it. Excess secretions drip in sallow pearls, forming nauseating puddles atop the bedspread. Pink puddles. Red puddles, black and splotched with gelatinous spurts of burgundy, spiraled and stringy.

Two meters from the bed, the contorted butler looms, connected to the one hovering above the mattress as if by a bleeding thread.

And the Marquis does bleed. A bubble pops within the corner of his mouth; a sticky heat twists in rusty chains around his legs. He is impaled, and all the paler for it. Folded forward, Cecil watches with dull eyes as his speared corset blossoms with color: scarlet petals as soft and vibrant as the ones that the attack had sent flurrying out of his hair. Roses scatter as he is lanced and lifted, stocking feet clicking together like muted chimes. It is a sound that the aswang echoes, triumphant, as it sets its shoulders and takes a mighty _pull._

"Miss Palmer!"

There is wetness and spluttering. There is a seeping ooze, still vividly ruby, as the proboscis suckles. As it shivers, setting skirts and limbs and tresses swaying limply.

"_Cecil!_"

And then the swaying is not limp. The shivers are not shivers—the suckling is not suckling—and the seeping ooze is not ruby, but purest, deepest onyx: gritty as loam and cold as grave soil, slopping between bared teeth and dirtying the sickle of a secreted smile.

"Got you…"

The words are sing-song, pitched low and ringing loud. Cut strangely into shape by the razors of white, white teeth, the greeting is somehow _warped_; it falls as heavily from curled lips as clumps of earth, plunging like twin stones into the silence. A jaw grinds. The world wavers. And the silence that had flooded the room ripples as much as the reverb of that Voice— surges outward in invisible, intangible waves, swelling to drown those trapped within the deluge.

"_Ecce hereditas Domini filii mercis fructus ventris…_"

The Scout keens, inaudible, his legs wobbling beneath him. The aswang convulses, scrabbling at its temples. Contaminated by cantarella giggles, the air is suddenly difficult to breathe; there is pressure and pushing and a pulsing like deep waters as sound tries to penetrate ears, eyes, lungs. Blood rushes, noisy as breath; there is a ringing that Earl cannot pinpoint, one that resounds from everywhere and nowhere. One that fills him with numbness, joints corroded by knots of ivy as his stomach sinks into the ground, planted like a seed. Freckled skin blooms with goose pimples, tingling and taut. He can feel his hair rising on the back of his neck, and gasps in horror as Cecil's locks idly mimic his own: the twisting tendrils coiling upward in a tangle of golden weeds, climbing the shadowy trellises made by moon-glow and shadow.

"_Sicut sagittae in manu potentis ita filii excussorum…_"

There is a moan. Earl wonders for a moment if the cry is his own, but no. It does not belong to the monster, either—nor the Marquis, nor even the bed, despite the wooden screech of it. But as the groan extends with a cracking and snap, the Scout witnesses the thorns in Cecil's hair do the same: branching outwards and budding new roses.

"_Beatus vir qui impelbit desiderium suum ex ipsis…_

Only— no. No, they are not roses. One hand, juddering, coils around the skewering tongue as prickled petals of coltsfoot unfurl within gnarled hair. A second fist creaks into place beside the first, and vines of violet nightshade overtake the wasted remains of the roses. Fingers squeeze, burgundy fluids gurgling up and through the slats in his gloves; blood drips itself into bushy bunches of amaranthus, floral and heavy.

A leering face lifts, cherry petals spilling from a gaping mouth like teeth. Cecil stares at the cowering aswang with eyes as wide and shining as shattered mirrors.

"…_non confundentur cum loquentur inimicis suis in porta_," he croaks, sludge splashing at his feet with a sound like punctuation. The monster titters, writhing in agony— yanking back with flailing limbs as it tries desperately to flee. But like an insect trapped in sap, the creature finds escape impossible: the shaft of its tongue is held firmly by grasping hands, captured by plaits of voracious vines. Rather than a tender fetus, the bayonet of the creature's proboscis has inadvertently anchored itself to something hard and chilled, and its biology is such that it cannot spit the item out. It tugs, it heaves; it trembles as it is consumed by the papery rustle of twirling leaves, vibrant hydrangeas bursting into life like erupting galaxies in the velveteen night. Within the wreath of an indigo aureole, the aswang wilts—withering like a flower choked to death by invasive weeds.

But it is not dead yet.

"Earl!" the Marquis snaps, spattering mud in shining droplets as he is violently shaken, still as much a victim of the beast as the beast is a victim of his. "_Earl, now!_"

The Scoutmaster jolts. Like a bolt of lightning, the shock of sound traverses down Earl's spine, syllables setting his nerves alight and twitching with errant electricity. His knees jerk, his muscles spasm; each motion feels bizarrely involuntarily, even though he recognizes that this is what he _wants_ to do. What he is _meant _to do. He leaps from his stumbled crouch as if in a dream, sinuous and smooth, his feet shoving him forward as his arms sweep powerfully upward and—

_Thud._

Two bodies collapse. One, headless, crumples where it had stood, the leaking stump of its neck feeding the flowers that lie in bulbous bunches beside it. Its exposed esophagus quavers, gelatinous; the last of its breath wheezes through that glistening tube, burbling the spilling blood and rustling stained petals. Extremities shiver off the last vestiges of consciousness with the delicacy that leaves might dew. Its tufted hair shrivels. Somewhere in the darkness, the monster's lost head rolls: spinning as it swipes scarlet streaks across the floor with the tip of its spongy proboscis. Cleanly axed, the lolling tongue looks oddly humanoid, now—stumpy and lax. The aswang is more butler than beast in death, and Earl pays its corpse as little mind as his aristocratic fellows would the living help.

There are more important people to tend to, at present.

"Cecil!" the Scout cries, the name strained beneath every sort of anxiety. In an instant, he has tossed his dirtied dagger aside, never having fully realized that he'd been holding it. Spewing a barrage of colorful expletives, Earl rushes the final steps forward, almost unable to stop himself from clamoring atop the mattress and physically grabbing his wounded companion. But at sight of one so pasty, so pained, he stumbles to a stall. Years of training echo in the back of his mind as he loiters beside the bed, glowering at the one who lies suffering upon it. His eyes have begun to sting. He tries to focus through the blurring of details. He swallows hard, telling himself that what he blinks away is the remnants of sweat as he curses and chokes, "_Cecil_, you insufferable _imbecile! _What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?!"

"H-hunting a monst…er…?" Cecil offers, the retort strained from being driven through grit teeth. Curled around his lower belly, the Marquis spasms— legs beating in some misguided attempt to kick away the pain. His fists clench tightly at the base of the lancing tongue, holding its tip taut and his stomach together as the greater portion of the severed proboscis grows flaccid and waxy. His corset squelches as he thrashes, the motion squeezing further stains into the eiderdown, into skirts and sheets. All three are dyed in mimicry of London's night sky: ebony and leaking and tinged with something metallic. Something oily. Gore pushes through the stopper of the wedged organ with every shallow pant, seeping like mud down the curve of the Master's folded body. It adds grit to the brambles of his hair, color to the pallor of his cheeks.

The flowers have drooped. The vines have died. All that remains is a single gauzy blossom of eglantine: a fragile sprout that loops oddly from the hole within the man's belly. Its stem hisses—a plaintive, near-silent cry— as it is eaten away by corrosive acids. It is not all that is being eaten away, if the expression of unspeakable anguish contorting Cecil's face is anything to judge by.

"God dammit, you _stupid_—!" Earl snarls, falling to his knees alongside his prone patron. Blunted nails rip into the bedspread as he grasps it, glaring furiously at the lopsided face before him. "All of this for a single aswang?! It wasn't worth it, Master!"

"I couldn't… l couldn't let it threaten m-more unborn children…"

"But to go to such extremes?!" the Scout snaps, wincing visibly as his companion tenses, and tugs, and with a lurid _pop_, pulls the protuberance from the cradle of his pelvis. Though he bites at the sodden blankets, the Marquis cannot stop himself from crying out; though he knows that they must still be quiet, Earl cannot stop himself from doing the same. "I could've—I could've found some other way to…!"

"We haven't… you've been so busy, I just—" Cecil rasps, features squeezed as tightly as the arm around his middle. He coils himself about it, one hand scraping scars into his side as the other trembles, squeezing the extracted tongue. At the proboscis' tapered end, where the maroon flesh crests into a thickset bowl, something gleams beneath a luster of sludge. It is stuck, glistening and large, like a gem that might crest a walking stick. Earl suspects with sickening certainty that the lump is exactly that. It pulls a whimper from his throat, even as Cecil himself whimpers, "It's so l-lovely t-to… to have your company— t-to work on a case th-that isn't connected to… _Hngh_—!"

A hacking; a splatter. A soft cracking sound, like soapstone when it is mistreated. Earl can feel raw panic fray at his façade, paring away his layers until he is no more than a child: seven and terrified and uncertain of how to help.

"But look at you, Sir!" he whispers, gesticulating blindly at the mire and the mess. A hand brushes close to a quivering thigh; Cecil makes a strangled noise, flinching further into himself. Further into a ball. "_Look _at you! These flowers, these—! This mulch! Your wig is literally _rooted _to your head, and miasma has bleached it white! Did I do this…? Did—by making this moonstone, did…?" Earl gasps, realization dawning and melting down his spine with the frigidity of spring ice, pale and blue. Pale and blue, like— "Oh, God—your eyes… Let me see your—"

"_NO!_"

The single word _explodes_. It spirals and it cyclones, twirling like gale-force winds through overgrown pastures as Cecil bends hysterically backwards— as he shoots upright like a tree breaking through the husk of its seed. His snarled hair snakes about him like spiny wreaths of burdock, as barbed as bared teeth and raised defenses. There is no storm, but the room echoes as if with thunder. Flashes of lightning splinter the wide whites of shining eyes, the right of which has lost all traces of the sky. Something rumbles, deeper than deep, shaking grounds and hearts and souls alike as the frantic Marquis wails, _"Do not touch me, Earl Harlan! Do not _ever_ touch me like this_—!"

"Jesus—!"

The hand that Earl had extended is no longer reaching, but instead shielding; the Scoutmaster braces against an explosive _blast_ of floral air, spared from toppling over only by the grip that he has secured to the mattress. Even then, it is a struggle to remain erect. He flounders, shaking, as an incensed barrage of _sound _floods over him, threatening to physically push him away, to pull him under. To crush him beneath the weight of something feral and wild. Noises ring in Earl's ears, promising to rupture his drums; they pound through his bones, feeding on his marrow. They well in his throat, and in the deluge the Scout tastes acridity and copper and black mulberries.

The taste gurgles upward, bitter. Thick. Earl twists enough to spit a small mouthful of blood over his shoulder, not noticing the way that horror cracks the warped mask of fear that had overtaken Cecil's features. He does not hear the rattled endearment, nor the sound of a straining heart… But upon turning back around, Earl _does_ note how the Marquis' hands have left the gaping wound in his belly. Instead, they have clamped over the full of his mouth, clenched around it like a vice.

"Dearest Elf, I— I am s-so—"

But the Scoutmaster is already shaking his head. Other parts are shaking too, but he is still somehow calmer than before. "No, Mister Palmer, that wasn't— I was not thinking, please forgive me," he rattles, head bowed and fists taut but voice ringing with a sincerity that the Marquis might only ever _hope_ to match. "I should have known better. I _do _know better. I just—seeing you like… I'm so sorry, Cecil—?!"

Adrenaline bleeding out of him as quickly as other fluids, Cecil slumps back atop the bed, keeling as Earl speaks, then yelps and leaps again to his feet. The Marquis crumples, graceless; the Scoutmaster lingers, helpless, panicking as his patron begins to jitter and seize, to twitch and flail. To yowl— nearly biting off his own tongue as he gestures with the monster's, motioning madly for the door. Something thin and buttery-yellow is oozing between exposed intestines, and there is an irony in how his innards seem to be melting, even though they feel as if they have been set alight. Humors mix and interact in outlandish ways within his veins; Cecil feels strangely like laughing as his insides become outsides and moonflowers balloon where organs had grown. Rubbery tubers push at the back of his throat, prodding at the hinge of his jaw as he gags, "G-get out. Go—…! I'll be fine if you— I need you to _leave—! _Leave and _don't come back_!_" _

The command is weak, crumbling around its edges. More sound than substance, more waver than words, but still—a command is a command, and Earl is a Scout. More than that, he is a _knight_, and he leaps to comply without question or qualm. There is no hesitation in the way he marches for the door, no doubt or waffling in how he slips out and trudges down the hall. It would nearly be disconcerting—almost _disappointing_, really—if Cecil was not fully aware of the reason that the man obeyed so willingly. So passionately.

It all comes back to passion in the end, doesn't it…?

The Marquis burbles a liquid chuckle, a slug of slime slipping down his chin as he stares at the hazy blackness of the ceiling.

"H…e will no…t try t— to… save m… e," Cecil whispers into that gloom, lashes growing heavy as the chamber loses definition, and he loses the awareness to notice that. Lines blur like the patterns on beating butterfly wings as the shadows squirm, wriggling in parody of overlain centipedes. The ants within his arteries march to the fading metronome of his heart, the prickle of their countless limbs fading into nothingness. He is fading, too, his extremities losing feeling; toxins have corroded the rooted system of his nerves, fraying them to the point where they can no longer register pain. Or pleasure. Or anything at all, leaving the Marquis floating strangely upon a wispy cloud of fading consciousness, deprived of any sensation.

_Oh, he is _always_ trying to save you._

…except, perhaps, taste. The buds on his tongue are contracting. Caught somewhere between wakefulness and dreams, light and darkness, Heaven and Hell, there is nothing to ground the dying man except for grounded leaves, stewed to the point of singeing. Earl Gray, he thinks. Scorched, but recognizable. The tiny pull of it trickles down his swollen throat, so weakly brewed that its zest could pass for no more than a memory… but it isn't. Cecil knows better. Eat Me, Drink Me, and Wonderland whirls. His senses whirl, his thoughts whirl, rustling like the leaves that hide cicadas and spiders. His head is as heavy as the air of a summer garden, teeming with life and honey. And that honey flows, saccharine at first but too bitter to savor. It is a cloying adhesive, amber as sunlight and equally deadly in large doses. A generous portion is dolloped into his drink, making the potion all the more sour.

_It is simply that he will never succeed._

The Marquis coughs and splutters as the tea is chased down his gullet by a sandy slush of sugar, by cake and traces of jasmine— red salvia and clover, blooming in blotted bunches before his hooded eyes. Butterflies swirl and slot together like the gems in a kaleidoscope, their wings creating configurations that part like rising curtains. Cecil flurries his lids as they flurry away, his vision clearing. Still, he can feel the scurrying of the insects' countless, pin-needle legs as they tickle up and down his corded veins, bequeathing feeling and numbness in equal measure.

_But I must say, I do support his loving effort. The Child of the Mountain is a marvel, isn't he?_

There is a groan of sound—again, not from Cecil, nor the bed, nor from anything hidden within the unknown, but instead the sort of extended moan made by straining greenery as it grows, weaving and layering and twining and knotting over a perceived gap in its lattice. Vines rustle against one another, exposed and sinewy like a layer of exposed muscle; leaves twirl to openness, smooth as sheathes of skin. Deep green to pale green to pale, the leathery tubers feast on spilt soil, growing faster and stronger until they are indistinguishable from the trembling flesh that surrounds them.

_The more he tries, the more he fails, the more determined he becomes to do the impossible._

The Marquis' ears are ringing. They are rushing. They are filled with blood that races to feed the hungry ground, but there are no longer any gaps for that blood to seep through, nor any cracks for it to dribble from. His humors are trapped as much as he is, and that realization sparks panic. It strikes like tinder against the flint of his spine; it sends embers flying, igniting something primal within his core. It wakes it, rousing it back to vigilance—and Cecil is left clutching frantically at the eiderdown as his body convulses back to sentience, tossing as helplessly as a flower in a tempest.

_It shall be fun to watch such pure motives warp into frustration, then anger, then death__._

But no storm lasts forever, however furious. Waves settle, nerves settle, a body settles; woven locks of hair, loosely curled and firmly embedded, halo Cecil in an aureole of silvery gold, as drained of color as the true tresses beneath. Varied florets have withered like the roses before them, emaciated and browning. The proboscis held tightly in a gloved hand has withered, too, its suction upon that which had jammed it having loosened considerably. With effort, the Marquis wrenches his fingers from the elastic tongue of the felled beast, prizing instead the pit of the jewel from its center. Lethargic but resolute, the trembling man hefts the weighed gem into the air. His arm sways, his eyes narrow. He considers the stone's opalescent luster, rolling it so that its contours collect condensation in wet drops of light. In the shrouding darkness of the bedroom, the stone certainly lives up to its name: it hangs heavily between willowy fingers, flat and full and red as a blood moon.

_He reminds me of a famous quote. Oh, what is it that they say…? Yes, that's right:_

As red as other things, too.

"_And now three things remain: Faith, Hope, and Love."_

"…and the greatest of these is Love,"Cecil finishes, speaking in a whisper that barely resonates past the splay of his wrist. It is a mindless murmur, a sort of reflexive response, and makes a poor match for the segmented smile that worms its way across his mouth. But then, the appearance of that smile seems to startle the Master of Night Vale, as well. He may not have even noticed it, had it not been for the tactile sensation of grin against glove. How queer it is! He frowns—or intends to frown, but instead feels that smirk hone itself further, cutting pleasure into the base of his hand. Damp cheeks ache as they, too, are prodded at by that sweeping sickle, summoning sanguineous shades. More blood, more aching. Cecil wonders what could possibly set him grinning in the midst of so much residual pain—

"Oh."

—but then his lips brush a spot that another had earlier stamped, and he remembers in a surge of something like emotion. Something effervescent and warm, like giggles.

He is giggling, one arm falling flat against the mattress as he twists around the other, palm sliding to cover the full of his contorted mouth. How _very _odd! How incredibly peculiar. Not only does the expression lack its customary cold edge, Cecil observes, but his habitually clammy skin suddenly feels quite _warm_. Delightfully so. He mewls as he basks in it, in the way that those fault lines beneath his flesh grate and grind and imbue him with the heat of strange friction. He is full of faults and friction. Still, he grins as he clutches his moonstone, because there are some things worth falling to pieces for.

"Well, well, look at you."

And there are other things that have a man falling silent. The Marquis freezes, eyes of hoar and sapphire snapping open to the click of an unseen door. A haloing beam of golden light falls in a gossamer shaft across the length of his knotted body, only to vanish as quickly as it had appeared. Its intensity is fleeting, but the intensity of the one now looming behind him is not.

"I can only assume from so delighted an expression that you are having a good evening, 'Miss.' At least, you appear to be _happy_."

There is a weight to that last word, a significance that adds to the burden of a clasped jewel. Velvet laughter becomes frayed from gravel as Cecil pushes himself up on the flats of his hands, glaring through the thorny tangles of his hair. As his focus shifts, his stone is temporarily abandoned: left atop the rumpled duvet within an orbit of folds. Its surface swirls, shining with the darkness of a planet without a sun. Its presence beckons him.

So does that of this new guest.

"What are you doing here, Sister?" Cecil quietly demands, in a voice that ripples outward like a spilt bolt of silk. Other silks susurrate softly as he shifts, turning on a hip to regard the figure who lingers by the door.

Josie.

"The angels had me come."

Very much an old woman now, sagging and years past her prime, the prophet continues to grip to life with the tenacity of so many garden weeds. Ivy tendrils of henna coil possessively around what plots of shriveling skin her gloves fail to conceal, violet as the gloom and just as voyeuristic. Their patterns blink in the blackness, caught between creases of suede skin; her bindi blinks too, in ways that her pearly eyes do not. That unrelenting gaze shares the same milky hue as the paler stones stitched upon Cecil's necklace. Opalescent and omnipotent, they glimmer as she stares both at and through him. He, in turn, stares back, his expression carefully curried to be dull.

"Did they."

"Well. To the party, yes," Josie specifies, meandering from the entrance with a series of measured footsteps. Beneath the ruffled drape of her own tailored gown, her boots are rendered silent; she glides across the carpet with surprising grace for one so elderly, though her bones whine in displeasure as she bends to pluck something from the floor. "Your pet salamander is the one who sent me to this room. He must have been concerned to have sought my aid. Looking at you now, I can understand why."

"Is it really so disturbing to see me smiling?"

"It is not the smile, I think, that disturbs," the woman retorts flatly, hefting the Marquis' discarded dress over the crook of her arm. Its crimps make sounds of protest as they are dragged across the ground, undulating in frothy patterns with every other step that she takes. Cecil observes her progress towards the bed with an indifference best epitomized by the way he flops bonelessly back, supine once more. Eyes upon the ceiling, arms stretched long, he takes note of his bloodstains and dirt smears and indulges in a snort that is neither ladylike nor gentlemanly.

"I suppose that is fair. Are the angels enjoying the party?"

"Are _you_?"

"I am enjoying aspects," he confesses, kicking his feet like a petulant child as Josie tosses his disguise upon him. The fine material catches between his toes as he twists his ankles back and fore, flexing rigor mortis from his joints in the wake of resurrection. "However, there is too much of a good thing, I know. And I regret to admit that I could hardly endure much more, as I am now."

"But you do not wish to stay as you are now," Josie intuits, swatting at Cecil's thigh with the tip of a jeweled cane. There is some comfort—and discomfort—in the realization that the Marquis' nerves and pain receptors are fully functional once more. He hisses, rolling first from the assault, then from the bed. It is an ungainly motion, but an effective one: he is finally standing again, heels grind into the plush of the carpet. Knees buckle, legs wavering as Cecil is thrown temporarily off-balance by the weight of the dress that he holds like a security blanket. Fabrics chafe as fingers flex; flakes of ichor slough from the thick material corseted around the Marquis' abdomen, gritty with grime. He watches those muddied clumps fall for a long moment before confessing:

"…I have been seeking a Magician."

The solemnity of this admission is undermined by a wry grunt. Josie scoffs in the same vulgar manner that her companion had so recently employed, leaning heavily against the gemmed handle of her walking stick.

"I _know_ that you have," she then reminds the other blandly, jabbing a gnarled finger in the vague direction of her eyes, of her bindi. Of her general person. Whether or not she also sees the exasperated expression that Cecil pulls in response to this rejoinder is both debatable and irrelevant. The only pulling that matters is that of his rumpled gown up his slender body. It is a task which the elderly woman is swift to assist with. As the frequent—and, occasionally, only—caretaker of an eleven year old girl, the Marquis has had a fair amount of practice fixing the laces of elaborate party gowns, but even still, he is bumbling and inexperienced compared to his companion. Wielding her cane with a briskness and efficiency that Cecil much appreciates after the events of this evening, Josie pushes his hands away and takes up the cords, yanking and looping and knotting those drawstrings with ease as she adds, "But what _you_ may not know is that you have already met him, my Lord."

"I— _what_?"

Fists braced around one of the four poster's wooden shafts, Cecil feels each of his muscles clench and stiffen—fingers threatening to snap the post like some sort of winter twig. Bicolored eyes widen, one moon-bright and the other fragmented with twilight; he turns enough to pierce Josie with that ethereal gaze, the jewels on his necklace chattering. "When?" he demands over the chitter of stones. The beat of his heart is as erratic as those clattering gems as he pleads, "Where?"

Josie lifts her shoulders. Perhaps it is a shrug. Perhaps she is merely tying a final bow.

"Perhaps time will tell, for I shall not," she tells the other lightly, stepping away with the same brusqueness as she had approached. Cecil, in turn, hisses in much the same manner as his foppery as he spins, the taut of synched fabric squeezing a growl of frustration through clenched teeth.

"So you have come again merely to taunt me?!" he snaps, the vines of tresses made pale settling about his shoulders. Nearly unnoticed beneath the drape of the night, the finest of those hairs climb into the darkness: rising like the pitch and volume of a furious voice. Were the air dry, static might be to blame for such an effect. In the musk of midnight, however, they more closely resemble the assent of reedy sprouts. They waver along with the rest of Cecil as he glowers, snarling, "Why do you never consent to help me? Do you not wish to be cured?!"

"'Cured'?" The word gains a note of scathing ridicule as it is echoed back to the Marquis, as pitiless as it is scornful. Josie shakes her head and readjusts her stick, hobbling with its help towards the outline of the door. She chuckles to herself as she goes, her tone as dark and suffocating as grave soil. "There is no medicine that is not also poison, Brother. And in the wake of fate and fairs, I would have thought you'd have had your fill of magic potions."

Cecil stiffens. In a burst of breath, the room smells harshly of rosemary, piquant and sour.

"And I would have thought you'd have grown tired of leaving others to flounder blindly."

"Oh? What an ironic thing for _you _to say," Josie snaps, but with an insouciance that leaves the Marquis red-faced and weak-kneed. He gapes, dumbfounded; he swallows, dumbstruck. A sudden rush of molten heat and liquid ice collides within his marrow, sickening his soul as much as his stomach. Out of fear of spilling more than words should he attempt to respond, Cecil keeps his mouth shut, lips as tight and trembling as the arms he twines around his middle. Unspoken guilt festers beneath the gesture, blooming like the sweet stench of rot. Josie's nostrils flair, but the flutter of her hand is dismissive as she stalls beside the exit.

"There is a difference, Sir," she nonchalantly appends, drumming one set of knotty fingers atop the other, atop her cane, "between blindness and merely closing one's eyes. I cannot see. You refuse to. And so I, in turn, refuse to do more than I already have, however I might wish otherwise."

Josie cocks her head, a coarse coil of silvered hair slipping from the intricate bun it had been woven into. With startling suddenness, she looks very tired: worn in a way that only too long a life can make a person. It is a nuanced expression, bruised and intense and distorted in ways that few would recognize, let alone appreciate. But Mister Palmer knows. He understands. His own features collapse beneath the weight of a similar look as his companion's hand finds the doorknob and gives it a twist. Something within him twists in time; he twists away as the older woman murmurs:

"It is the nature of humankind to wish for things we cannot have. And Cecil, dear— I do wish for your continued happiness."

"And I yours, Josie."

The whisper is lost in the emptiness of the room. Weak and weary, it fails even to reach the corners before vanishing, leaving the Marquis to wonder if it had managed to find the recipient's ears. But then, it hardly matters, he supposes. Josie Sees, and Josie knows. Josie does not need words in the same way that he does. It is a point that Cecil mulls on as he slips on his boots, as he gathers his locks and gives them a gentle tug, assessing the extent to which they've rooted to his skull. His scalp twinges, resistant; he sighs and surrenders the point for now, choosing instead to tame the sheaves with a new braid. Distracted and humming, Cecil wades into a pool of moonshine, lacing a plait as pale as the stars as he murmurs about leather sickles and heather bunches. He thinks, too, on oceans and beaches, on shirts and things that may or may not be what they seem. The Marquis' fingers are as clever as the thoughts in his head, as secretive and silent as the one who pushes at the bedroom door.

And like Josie, Cecil does not need to see in order to know who has returned.

"I thought I told you not to come back," Cecil accuses lightly, affixing the end of his woven tresses. The finished braid slips silkily through his gloved fingers, draped over and landing heavily against his slender shoulder. Somewhere beyond his drawn silhouette, the door is fitted back into its frame with the same nimbleness that he uses to toy with his hair.

"Have I ever listened to that order before?"

Cecil huffs a lilted laugh. There is mirth in the retort, but still, his lashes are as low as his tone as he scolds, "You are an incredibly obstinate knight, aren't you?"

"There are worse things I could be."

"Perhaps so," the Marquis assents, scrutinizing this most recent— no, this _oldest_—of intruders as he slips into the shadows beside him, red hair flaming and hands clasped behind his back, "but there is little else that would be more dangerous."

Earl considers this accusation, his freckles stark on skin bleached white by moonbeams. There is a cautious edge to his frown, his sunken dimples a place where darkness readily wells. And yet, that darkness' source does not appear to be the horrors which the other tries so frequently to warn about. Instead, with a cough, the Scoutmaster wets his lips and hesitantly ventures, "On the subject of danger…"

"All has passed," his patron assures blandly, his ominous air abandoned with a stretch of lithe arms and a roll of a stiff neck. He had been hunched and flailing for far longer than he realized, apparently. Cecil makes a soft sound of pleasure as his vertebrae click back into place, not unlike puzzle pieces being more properly slotted together. As thoughts and body parts align, a better picture of the situation emerges; the Marquis pauses, hands laced high above his head, as he slants a gaze towards his somber partner, prompting, "That is, unless you encountered something of note whilst I was indisposed…?"

The Scoutmaster grunts in a way that is neither dismissive nor assenting.

"Not 'of note,' per se…" he begrudgingly confesses, a ruddy wash of crimson blotching over his features as he stares emphatically at the sky. His expression is as cryptic as the reply itself; Cecil exchanges his lifted arms for an eyebrow. Earl sighs before professing, "I ran into Adam again. He had sensed the manifestation of the aswang and had been on his way to fight the beast himself. I only just managed to intercept him upon leaving this chamber—he had been rounding the corner at the end of the hall when I left. After reporting an appropriate, if not wholly accurate, account of our battle, he informed me that we no doubt lost our child. He sends us his most heartfelt condolences. After I turned down both his offer to go 'drinking to forget,' and an empathetic invitation to join his troupe in seeking revenge on other beasts, he offered to take _you_ on a spirited night out. Once you've physically recovered, anyway, and inevitably decided that you've tired of cavorting with the soulless."

Earl punctuates his drawl with the wriest of faces, his monotone expressive in a manner all its own. Cecil snickers, his leer as sharp as the knives littered about the bedroom.

"Oh, how like an Eternal Scout," he murmurs then, darkly amused, the heavy hoods of his lids doing little to hide the jewel-bright sparkle of his eyes, "failing both to appear when he is needed, and to vanquish the beast that he is meant to! A useless bunch, the lot of them."

"Indeed?" Earl returns, in a tone equally contaminated by black humor as he levels a pointed look at his companion. "_All _Scouts are like that?"

"They are."

The Marquis' expression does not change. The drollness remains, as does the dryness; he is smiling in that way he often does—that smile that is not a smile at all, but instead a deep wound which festers upon his face. Yet, for all that stays the same, the Scoutmaster can feel something insubstantial shift, and shift in a very substantial way. Earl's glance had been pointed, yes, but it is nothing like the dagger of his patron's mismatched gaze, unblinking and bright in the blackness.

Earl's heart stops as if under a literal blade. Even still, the Scout remains as stubborn as his cursed companion, unrelenting and unapologetic as they face off in the moonlight.

"You are not a monster, Cecil."

It is not so much a reassurance as it is a decree. It evokes another snort, as light as any good joke might.

"Nor am I pregnant, it seems!" the Marquis jests in return, with an affected lamentation that has Earl pulling a different sort of face. The Scout's scowl deepens when Cecil rubs dramatically at his belly, shoulders drooping and head tipping in parody of a stage actor's exaggerated sorrow. A hand pressed to his forehead, he swoons, catching himself on a hip against the bed while crooning, "How wretched am I! What a useless wife I shall make you! But oh, might you still love me, my Lord, despite my barenes— _eep!_"

Cecil squeaks, startled, as Earl's wadded up suit coat strikes him against the head. It had flown across the room like some sort of meteorite, and had ruptured like one, too. Sleeves and torso explode outward, swallowing the other's sarcastic little head; the Earl watches impassively as his patron struggles against another layer of foppery, squawking all the while.

"It is the issue of your cheekiness that I find more troubling," Earl drones when the Marquis finally manages to fight free. Still wearing the jacket as a sort of head shawl, Cecil looks torn between smirking and pouting—much as the Scout finds himself torn between laughing and throttling his partner. In the end, both men choose to beam at one another, grinning in that impossibly unrestrained way that they do. Of course, this moment of camaraderie does not stop Earl from shaking his head, nor from rolling his eyes as his Master makes a show of standing and slipping on the tossed jacket, mutely claiming it as his own. "In any case, it is just as well that you can give me no children. Between tending to _juvenile Marquises_ and the youngsters in my Scouting troupe, I think I play father to enough as it is."

The Scoutmaster levels his impish companion a meaningful stare as he watches him pluck a pearly bead from the bedspread. Into the commandeered jacket's pocket, the latter subtly buries the crimson jewel. Into its collar, he not-so-subtly buries his face. Then he breathes in, blatant and noisy, and with enough vigor to wind up with fabric up his nostrils.

"Ah, indeed," Cecil taunts as he exhales, wheezing deeply. "You positively _reek_ of bad aftershave and discipline. You are a father through-and-through, no doubt."

"And you, Sir, a bastard," Earl deadpans, looking very tempted to bean his sardonic patron with a boot, as well. Surely he'd find that stench equally eloquent. But as the mature and disciplined one in this team, the Scoutmaster forces himself to resist that urge. If Adam's Scouts are to tidy this mess—as Earl had recently been assured they would—, they must away post-haste. They haven't time for elaborate punishments.

So Earl takes the more simplistic route and swats at Cecil's arm. Gently at first, but with more purpose when the infantile Marquis retaliates with a snotty, snuffling sniff. And nose rubbing.

"Ew! Sir! Some decorum, if you please!"

"Mmm, all right, but only _some_," the Marquis snickers, petulant, as he takes another boisterous pull. The scented air catches against something in his lungs, rattling them. Rattling them both. Earl bristles in the wake of it, growling playfully; Cecil burrows his face so fully that he seems half-intent on smothering himself. There is a coughed chortle, the sound jostled free when Earl gives his partner a stronger shove, trying to salvage the coat from any further damage. The slighter man shakes, and is shaken; resilient fingers curl around the excess material covering the Marquis' shoulders, using it as leverage. Cecil is tugged forward and pushed back, tugged forward and pushed back—

Tugged forward. And then he is choking on something else entirely. Something hot and tight and sharp in his throat. For a moment—just a fleeting instant—the Marquis' face is not pressed to cold cloth, and he is not breathing in the faded scent of the suit coat. No, all of that is replaced in a rush by the Earl, who holds to his Master as tightly, as desperately, as he possibly dares.

He gives no explanation for it. He does not need to. Nor does Cecil need to remind him to pull away, to let go. He does so on his own, and the Marquis' chest throbs all the more for it.

"…how fortunate I am that you take such good care of bastards," he comments into the hush, with another rumbling chuckle to loosen all that has lodged within. He smiles, bolstering. Earl snorts, and in so doing manages to mask a more puerile snivel. The sound appears to mortify him. Frustratingly, there is nothing so easy to be done to cover the sheen of glass that overtakes his eyes and the blotchiness that stains his cheeks. Such an emotional reaction… The Scout shrinks a bit, embarrassed. The Marquis observes this, and reacts.

With enough histrionics to shame all of the actors in the Globe Theatre, Cecil indulges in another melodramatic sigh. He hems and he haws and he rolls his eyes to the ceiling— tactfully allowing Earl to scrub his own face dry—before he animatedly bemoans, "Oh— but this unrelenting talk of children has me missing our own child. Now that our work here is done, little Elf, shall we leave for Night Vale and Adana?"

"Certainly," the Scout agrees with swiftness, eager to return to normal in every sense of the word. Still, the reply is touched by more concern than Cecil had been expecting. He arches his brow in response to it, and Earl wastes no time in reacting to that prompt. "But Mister Palmer, I question the safety of leaving the same way that we came. Your gown has been stained terribly, your right eye has… changed, and your hair is now… Um…"

For as much care as the Earl had been using to build his argument, he shows no concern about suddenly abandoning it. He trails into silence—not so much to discreetly imply anything, but because his Master is already purposefully ogling the window.

"…you're joking."

He is not joking.

"I trust you still remember how to scale a trellis, dear?" the Marquis of Night Vale purrs, with an innocence that is immediately contradicted by a wicked grin. Already he is hiking up his flounces, tautening his gloves. Unlatching a lock.

The Scoutmaster deliberates, nonchalantly rolling back his sleeves as he does so.

Then he smirks.

"Race you."

**XXX**

**Monsters (from wiki, 8list, and listverse):**

_Aswang_: One of the most feared monsters in the Philippines, the aswang is best categorized as a sort of vamperic shape-shifter. It switches back and forth between being a shy, outwardly harmless human during the day, and a terrifying beast at night. Aswang are infamous for being fast, silent, and nearly impossible to spot when hunting, though one might sometimes hear them make a "tik-tik" noise. Generally, aswang tend to take on dog-like appearances when they transform, but they can also become cats, bats, birds, boars, and other such animals. Many have proboscises that they use to suck fetuses from their mother's wombs, as well as livers and hearts from small children. In their humanoid forms, aswang are characterized by bloodshot eyes, within which a person's reflection will appear upside down.

_Yako: _A popular demon from Japanese mythology. One of the subgroups of "kitsune," yako, like their other foxy brethren, are known for their intelligence, their prowess with magic, and their long lives. However, yako tend to be more mischievous, and often more malicious, than their peers. As kitsune age, they become stronger, gaining additional tails and abilities. In folklore, one of their most celebrated powers is the ability to shape-shift after placing a leaf (or sometimes a reed, or even a skull) atop their heads. Though they are able to make duplicates of themselves or doppelgangers of others, most stories revolve around them turning into beautiful young women who trick men into marrying them.

**Jewels (from crystalvaults, crystal-gemstones, hetties, and crystal-cure):**

_Tiger's Eye_: A useful gem for the weak and the sick, Tiger's Eye is a healing stone for those with high blood pressure, asthma, or heart disease. It fills its wearer with a zest for life, granting courage, determination, and strength; it stokes one's desire for success while simultaneously attracting wealth and good fortune. Further benefits include the provision of mental focus and confidence. It affords protection during travel in the sense that it keeps a person aware of the dangers lurking in their surroundings, and inspires appropriate levels of cautiousness. For that reason, it is a popular stone to wear into battle.

_Moonstone_: Already hailed as one of the ultimate stones of protection for travelers, moonstone is also famous as a gem of love and eroticism. It encourages passion, an understanding of one's self and others, and helps to reunite lovers who have parted. Additionally, it is said to be the definitive fertility stone, enhancing femininity and promoting the ease of pregnancy, childbirth, and child-growth. Red moonstone, specifically, further embodies hopes, wishes, and new beginnings.

**Victorian Slang (from buzzfeed and mentalfloss):**

_Tot-hunting:_ Prowling for women

_Bag of Oranges:_ Pretty girls

_Daddles_: Hands

**Flowers (from languageofflowers):**

_Amaranthus:_ Hopelessness, or hopeless love; self-sacrifice

_Black Mulberry Tree: _"I shall not survive you"

_Burdock: _"Touch me not"

_Carnation_ (White): Endearment

_Cherry Tree_ (White): Deception

_Clover: _Be mine

_Coltsfoot:_ "Justice shall be done to you"

_Eglantine: _"I wound to heal"

_Jasmine: _"I attach myself to you"

_Justicia_: The perfection of female loveliness

_Lavender: _Serenity, grace, calmness; distrust (due to the superstition that poisonous asps live beneath this plant)

_Hydrangea:_ Heartlessness

_Moonflower: _Night, instability

_Nightshade:_ Truth

_Red Salvia: _Forever mine

_Rose _(Red): Love

_Rosebud_ (Red): Purity, Love

_Rosemary: _Remembrance

**Psalm 127:3-5 (in English): **

"Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are children born in one's youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them. They will not be put to shame when they contend with their opponents in court."


End file.
